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/.73f             T  H  K    C  0  M  V  L  E  T  E 

A  r>  •" 

















THE  LliiitXi^i 






JOAN   OF  arc; 9 

Preface 9 

Orii^iiial  Preface 10 

Dcdicaiion 13 











Notes 59 


nook  1 86 

II 89 

III 92 

Notes 94 

Book  I. 










JUVENILE   AND  3IINOR  POEMS,  Vol.  I.    . 



The  Tiul-mph  of  \Vom.\n 


Wat  Tyler 

Poems  concerning  the  Slave  Trade 

Si.<  Sonnets 

To  the  Genius  of  Africa 

The   Sailor   who    liad    served    in  'the    Slave 

Verses  spoken  in  the  Theatre  at  Oxford,  upon 

the  Installation  of  Lord  Grcnvllle 

Botany  Bay  Eclogues 


Humphrey  and  William 

John,  Samuel,  and  Richard 






The  Wife  of  Fergus 


La  Caba 

The  Amatory  Poems  of  Abel  Shufflebot- 


Love  Elegies 







Lyric  Poems 1"7 

To  Horror 127 

To  Contemplation 127 

To  a  Friend 128 

Remembrance 1-9 

The  Soldier's  Wife 129 

The  Widow 129 

The  Chapel  Ikll 130 

To  Hymen 130 

Written  on  the  First  of  December 131 

Written  on  the  First  of  January 131 

Written  on  Sunday  Morning 132 

The  Race  of  Banquo 13- 

Written  in  Alentejo 13- 

To  Recovery 133 

Youth  and  Age 133 

The  Oak  of  our  Fathers 131- 

The  Battle  of  Pultowa 13t 

The  Traveller's  Return 134 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts 135 

Translation  of  a  Greek  Ode  on  Astronomy.  .  .  135 

Gooseberry  Pie 136 

To  a  Bee 1"'"' 

To  a  Spider 137 

The  Destruction  of  Jerusalem 137 

The  Death  of  Wallace 138 

The  Spanish  Armada 138 

St.  Bartholomew's  Day 139 

The  Holly-Tree 139 

The  Ebb  Tide HO 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor 1 10 

To  Mary 1  H 

To  a  Friend,  inquiring  if  I  woula  live  over  my 

Youth  again HI 

The  Dead  Friend 141 

Songs  of  the  American  Indians 142 

The  Huron's  Address  to  the  Dead 142 

The  Peruvian's  Dirge  over  the  Body  of  his 

Father 143 

Song  of  the  Araucans  during  a  Thundcr-Slorm  143 

Song  of  the  Chikkasah  Widow 144 

The  Old  Chikkasah  to  his  Grandson 144 

Occasional  Pieces 145 

The  Pauper's  Funeral 145 

The  Soldior's  Funeral 145 

On  a  Landscape  of  Gaspar  Poussin 146 

Written  on  Christmas  Day,  1795 116 

Written  after  visiting  the  Convent  of  Arrabida.  147 

On  my  own  IMiniature  Picture 147 

On  the  Death  of  a  favorite  old  Spaniel 147 

Recollections  of  a  Day's  Journey  in  Spain.  .  .  113 

To  Margaret  Hill. 119 

Autumn 14J 

The  Victory 150 



History 160 

Wrilten  iminedialely  after  reading  the  Speech 

of  Robert  Eininct 150 

Thanksgiving  lor  Victory 151 

Stanzas  written  in  Lady  Lonsdale's  Album.  .  .  151 
Stanzas  adtlrcssod  to  \V.  11.  Turner,  Esq.,  R.  A.  152 

On  a  Picture  by  J.  31.  Wright,  Esq 152 

Stanzas 153 

Imitated  from  tlie  Persian 153 

The  Retuosi'ect 154 

Hymn  to  the  Penates 155 

JUVENILE  AND  MINOR  POEMS,  Vol.  II.  .  158 
Preface 158 

English  Eci.ogijes 159 

The  Old  Mansion  House 160 

The  Grandmother's  Tale 161 

Hannah 162 

The  Sailor's  Mother 163 

The  Witch 1G5 

The  Ruined  Cottage 166 

The  Last  of  the  Family 167 

The  Wedding 169 

The  Alderman's  Funeral 170 

Nondescripts 172 

Written   the  Winter   after   the  Installation  at 

Oxford,  1793 172 

Snufi: 172 

Cool  Reflections  during  a  Midsummer  Walk.  .  173 

The  Pig 173 

The  Dancing  Bear 174 

The  Filbert 174 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore 175 

Robert  the  Rhymer's  true  and  particular  Ac- 
count of  Himself. 176 

The  Devil's  Walk 176 

Inscriptions 180 

For  a  Column  at  Newbury 180 

For  a  Cavern  that  overlooks  the  River  Avon.  .  180 

For  a  Tablet  at  Silbury  Hill 180 

For  a  Monument  in  the  New  Forest 181 

For  a  Tablet  on  the  Banks  of  a  Stream 181 

For  the  Cenotaph  at  Ermenonvillc 181 

For  a  Monument  at  Oxford 181 

For  a  Monument  in  the  Vale  of  Ewias 181 

Epitaph  on  Algernon  Sydney 182 

Epitaph  on  King  John 182 

In  a  Forest 182 

For  a  Monument  at  Tordesillas 182 

For  a  Column  at  Truxillo 182 

For  the  Cell  of  Honorius,  at  the  Cork  Convent, 

near  Cintra 182 

For  a  Monument  at  Taunton 183 

For  a  Tablet  at  Penshurst 183 

Two  Epitaphs 183 

■      For  a  Monument  at  Rolissa 184 

For  a  Monument  at  Vimeiro 184 

At  Coruria 184 

Epitaph 184 

To  the  Memory  of  Paul  Burrard 185 

For  the  Banks  of  the  Douro 185 

Talavera,     For  the  Field  of  Battle 186 

For  the  Deserto  de  Busaco 186 

For  the  Lines  of  Torres  Vedras 186 

At  Santarem 187 

At  Fuentes  d'Onoro 187 

At  Barossa 187 

For  a  Monument  at  Albuhera 188 


To  the  Memory  of  Sir  William  Myers 188 

Epitaph 188 

For  the  Walls  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo 189 

To  the  Memory  of  Major-Gcncral  ftlackinnon.  189 

For  the  Affair  at  Arroyo  Molinos 190 

Wrilten  in  an  unpublished  Volume  of  Letters, 

&c.  by  Barre  Charles  Roberts 190 

Two  Epitaphs 190 

Inscriptions   for   the  Caledonian 
Canal 191 

1.  At  Clachnacharry 191 

2.  At  Fort  Augustus 191 

3.  At  Banavie 192 

Epitaph  in  Butlcigh  Church 192 

Epitaph 192 

Dedication  of  the  Author's  Colloquies  on  the 

Progress  and  Prospects  of  Society 193 

Carmen  Triumphale,  for  the  Commence- 
ment OF  THE  Year  1814 194 

Notes 197 

Odes 201 

Written  during   the  Negotiations  with   Bona- 
parte, in  January,  1814 201 

Written  during  the  War  with  America 202 

Carmina  Aulica:  written  in  1814,  on 
the  Arrival  of  the  Allied  Sove- 
reigns IN  England 204 

Ode  to   His   Royal   Highness   the   Prince 

Regent  of  the  United  Kingdom 204 

Ode  to    His   Imperial  Majesty,  Alexander 

the  First,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias.  .  206 
Ode  to  His  Majesty,  Frederick  William  the 

Fourth,  King  of  Prussia 207 

On  the  Battle  of  Algiers 209 

On  the  Death  of  Queen  Charlotte 209 

Ode  for  St.  George's  Day 210 

Ode  written  after  the  King's  Visit  to  Ireland,  .  211 
Ode  written  after  the  King's  Visit  to  Scotland.  213 

The  Warning  Voice 214 

Ode  1 214 

Ode  II 215 

On  the  Portrait  of  Bishop  Heber 217 

Epistle  to  Allan  Cunningham 219. 

Op  eene  Verzameling  van  mijne  Afbeel- 



Preface 224 

Book  1 225 

Notes 231 

Book  II 236 

Notes 240 

■     Book  HI 243 

Notes 248 

Book  IV 255 

Notes 261 

Book  V 265 

Notes 270 

Book  VI 274 

Notes 278 

Book  VII 281 

Notes 285 

Book  VIII 287 

Notes 291 

Book  IX 295 

Notes 300 

Book  X 304 

Notes 308 



Book  XI 313 

Notes 318 

Book  XII 319 

Notes 324 

MADOC 325 

Preface 323 

Pakt  I.  — Madoc  in  Wales 327 

I.  The  Return  to  Wales 327 

II.  The  I\larriage  Feast 329 

III.  Cadwallon 331 

IV.  The  Voyage 333 

V.  Lincoya 335 

VI.  Krillyab 337 

Vn.  The  Battle 339 

VIII.  The  Peace 341 

IX.  Emma 343 

X.  IMalhraval 344 

XI.  The  Gorsedd 346 

XII.  Dincvawr 347 

XIII.  Llewelyn 349 

XIV.  Llaian 351 

XV.  The  Excommunication 333 

XVI.  David 355 

XVII.  The  Departure 356 

XVIII.  Rodri 338 

Notes  to  Part  1 339 

.•art  II.  —  Madoc  in  Aztlan 374 

I.  The  Return  to  Aztlan 374 

II.  The  Tidings 373 

III.  Neolin 378 

IV.  Amalahla 379 

V.  War  denounced 380 

VI.  The  Festival  of  the  Dead 381 

VII.  The  Snake-God 384 

VIII.  The  Conversion  of  the  Hoamen 386 

IX.  Tlalala 387 

X.  The  Arrival  of  the  Gods 389 

XI.  The  Capture 391 

XII.  Iloel 392 

XIII.  Coalcl 394 

XIV.  The  Stone  of  Sacrifice 395 

XV.  The  Battle 398 

XVI.  The  Women 399 

XVII.  The  Deliverance 402 

XVIII.  The  Victory 404 

XIX.  The  Funeral 406 

XX.  The  Death  of  Coate! 407 

XXI.  The  Sports 408 

XXII.  The  Death  of  Lincoya 409 

XXII  I.  Caradoc  and  Sencna 410 

XXIV.  The  Embassy 411 

XXV.  The  Lake  Fight 412 

XXVI.  The  Close  of  the  Century 413 

XXVII.  The  .Migration  of  the  Aztecas 416 

Notes  to  Part  II 420 


Preface 434 

Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn 435 

Donica 436 

Rudigcr 138 

Jaspar t-JO 

Lord  William 442 

St.  Patrick's  Purgatory 443 

The  Cross  Roads 444 

God's  Judgment  on  a  wicked  Bishop 4i7 


The  Pious  Painter  :    Part  1 448 

Part  II 449 

St.  Michael's  Chair 450 

King  Henry  V.  and  the  Hermit  of  Dreux.  .  .  .451 

Old  Chrislovals  Advice 451 

Cornelius  Agrippa I.!>2 

King  Charlemain '.''J 

St.  Romuald I-W 

The  King  of  the  Crocodiles  :   Parti !.';ii 

Part  II 457 

The  Rose 4.77 

The  Lover's  Roclc 4.58 



Garci  Ferraniioz  ;    Part  I. 
Part  II 

King  Ramiro 461 

The  Inchcape  Rock 464 

The  Well  of  St.  Kcyne 46.5 

Bishop  Bruno 4G6 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim 467 

A  true  Ballad  of  St.  Antidius,  the  Pope,  and 

the  Devil 468 

Gonzalo  Hermiguez 470 

Queen  Orraca,  and  the  Five  Martyrs  of  Mo- 
rocco  470 

The  Old  Woman  of  Berkeley 472 

The  Surgeon's  Warning 475 

Henry  the  Hermit 476 

St.  Gualbcrto 477 

Notes 480 

The  March  to  Moscow 483 

Brough  Bells 484 

Queen  JIary's  Christening 486 

Roprecht  the  Robber  :  Part  1 488 

Part  II 489 

Part  III 489 

Part  IV 490 

The  Young   Dragon  :   Part  1 492 

Part  II 493 

Part  III 494 

Part  IV 495 

Epilogue  to  the  Young  Dragon 497 

Advertisement 498 

A  Tale  of  Paraguay 498 

Preface 498 

Dedication 500 

Proem. 501 

Canto  1 502 

Canto  II 50C 

Canto  III 611 

Canto  IV 5i6 

Notes 322 

All  for  Love 3,33 

Dedication 333 

Notes 3'" 

The  Pilgrim  to  Compostella 351 

Prelude 351 

Introduction 3.>1 

The  Legend  :  Part  1 355 

Part  II 556 

Part  III 5.57 

Part  IV 5.57 

Notes 5.59 


Preface 365 

Original  Preface 567 



The  Funeral ^^'^ 


II.  Tlic  Curse 
III.  The  Recovery ^"^^ 









XXIV.  Roderick  and  Count  Julian 702 

XXV.  Roderick  in  Battle 704 

Notes ^^^ 

IV.  The  Departure 

V.  The  Separation 

VI.  Casyapa 

The  Swerga ^'° 

The  Sacrifice 581 

The  Home  Scene ^^^ 

Mount  Meru 584 

The  Enchantress 587 

XII.  The  Sacrifice  completed 690 

XIII.  The  Retreat 591 

XIV.  Jaga-Naut 593 

XV.  The  City  of  Baly 595 

XVI.  The  Ancient  Sepulchres 598 

XVII.  Baly GOl 

XVIII.  Kehaina's  Descent 602 

XIX.  Mount  Calasay 604 

XX.  The  Embarkation 60G 

The  World's  End G07 

The  Gate  of  Padalon 608 

Padalon 610 

The  Amreeta G13 






Notes.  . 




Part  L  —  The  Journey '^■^^ 

I.  Flanders ^"^^ 

II.  Brussels '^52 

III.  The  Field  of  Battle ^53 

IV.  The  Scone  of  War 757 

P.viiT  II.  — The  Vision 769 

I.  The  Tower 759 

II.  The  Evil  Prophet 762 

III.  The  Sacred 

Mountain 764 





Original  Preface 649 

I.  Roderick  and  Romano 649 

Roderick  in  Solitude 


The  Monastery  of  St.  Felix. 
Roderick  and  Siverian.  .  .  . 
Roderick  in  Times  past. 



VII.  Roderick  and  Pclayo 665 


IV.  The  Hopes  of  Man. 


CARMEN  NUPTIALE.  —  The  Lay  of  the 


The  Dream 




VIII.  Alphonso. 



i.otte  of  Wales.  . 

THE  Princess  Char- 





IX.  Florinda 668 

X.  Roderick  and  Florinda 669 

XI.  Count  Pedro's  Castle 673 

XII.  The  Vow 674 

XIII.  Count  Eudon 676 

XIV.  The  Rescue 678 

XV.  Roderick  at  Cangas 680 

XVI.  Covadonga 682 

XVII.  Roderick  and  Siverian 685 

XVIII.  The  Acclamation 687 

XIX.  Roderick  and  Rusilla 690 

XX.  The  Moorish  Camp 691 

XXI.  The  Fountain  in  the  Forest 694 

XXII.  The  Moorish  Council 698 

XXIII.  The  Vale  of  Covadonga 700 










Dedication.  . 

New  Preface. 

Original  Preface 2tl 

The  Trance. 

The  Vault. . 

The  Awakening 797 

The  Gate  of  Heaven 798 

The  Accusers '^9 

The  Absolvers ^00 

VII.  The  Beatification ^01 

VIII.  The  Sovereigns ^02 

IX.  The  Elder  Worthies 803 

X.  The  Worthies  of  the  Georgian  Age.    .  .  803 

XI.  The  Young  Spirits 804 

XII.  The  Meeting 805 



Specimens,  &c 809 



Preface f\ 

I.  Funeral  at  Sea ^'■^ 

II.  The  Voyage 813 

III.  Cape  Cod 816 

IV.  The  Captives  Ransomed 818 

V.  The  Portrait 821 

VI.  Future  Prospects 822 

VII.  The  Indian  War 825 

VIII.  Parting  Words 829 

IX.  Journey  through  the  Forest 830 

■V-  832 


Appendix  to  Oliver  Newman 832 

Miscellaneous  Poetical  Remains  : 
Fragmentary  Thoughts  occasioned  by  his 

Son's  Death 835 

Short  Passages  of  Scripture,  rhythmically 

arranged  or  paraphrased 835 

Little  Book,  in  Green  and  Gold 838 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  Rotha  Q,.  .  .  ■  838 

Imagination  and  Reality 839 

Madrigal,  from  Luis  Martin    839 

Mohammed ;  a  Fragment 839 

HCQ)IfgIERT    ^^©OTIIET  ESQ?  IL.1L.1E), 






At  the  age  of  sixty-three  I  have  undertaken 
to  collect  and  edite  my  Poetical  Works,  with 
the  last  corrections  that  I  can  expect  to  bestow 
upon  them.  They  have  obtained  a  reputation 
equal  to  my  wishes;  and  I  have  this  ground  for 
hoping  it  may  not  be  deemed  horeaflcr  more  than 
commensurate  with  their  deserts,  that  it  has  been 
gained  without  ever  accommodating  myself  to 
the  taste  or  fashion  of  the  times.  Tiius  to  collect 
and  revise  them  is  a  duty  which  I  owe  to  that 
part  of  the  Public  by  whom  they  have  been 
auspiciously  received,  and  to  those  who  will  take 
a  lively  concern  in  my  good  name  when  I  shall 
have  departed. 

The  arrangement  was  the  first  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered. In  this  the  order  wherein  the  respective 
poems  were  written  has  been  observed,  so  far  as 
was  compatible  with  a  convenient  classification. 
Such  order  is  useful  to  tliose  who  read  critically, 
and  desire  to  trace  the  progress  of  an  author's 
mind  in  his  writings ;  and  by  affixing  dates  to 
the  minor  pieces,  under  whatever  head  they  are 
disposed,  the  object  is  sufficiently  attained. 

Next  came  the  question  of  correction.  There 
was  no  difficulty  with  those  poems  which  were 
composed  after  the  author  had  acquired  his  art,  (so 
far  as  he  has  acquired  it,)  and  after  his  opinions 
were  matured.  It  was  only  necessary  to  bear  in 
mind  the  risk  there  must  ever  be  of  injuring  a 
poem  by  verbal  alterations  made  long  after  it  was 
written ;  inasnmch  as  it  must  be  impossible  to 
recall  the  precise  train  of  thought  in  which  any 
passage  was  conceived,  and  the  considerations 
upon  wliich  not  the  single  verse  alone,  but  the 
whole  sentence,  or  paragraph,  had  been  con- 
structed :  but  with  regard  to  more  important 
changes,  there  could  be  no  danger  of  introducing 
any  discrepance  in  style.  With  juvenile  pieces 
the  case  is  different.  From  tiicso  llic  faults  of 
diction  have  been  weeded,  wherever  it  could  be 
done  without  more  trouble  than  the  composition 
originally    cost,    and    than    the    piece    itself    was 

worth.  But  inherent  faults  of  conception  and 
structure  are  incurable ;  'and  it  would  have  been 
mere  waste  of  time  to  recompose  what  it  was  im- 
possible otherwise  to  amend. 

If  these  poems  had  been  now  for  the  first  time 
to  bo  made  public,  there  are  some  among  them 
which,  instead  of  being  committed  to  the  press, 
would  have  been  consigned  to  the  flames ;  not  for 
any  di.sgrace  which  could  be  reflected  upon  me 
by  the  crude  compositions  of  my  youth,  nor  for 
any  harm  which  they  could  possibly  do  the  reader, 
but  merely  that  they  might  not  cumber  the  col- 
lection. But '■''Jicscit  vox  missarcvcrti."  Pirated 
editions  would  hold  out  as  a  recommendation, 
that  they  contained  what  I  had  chosen  to  sup- 
press, and  thus  it  becomes  prudent,  and  therefore 
proper,  that  such  pieces  should  be  retained. 

It  has  ever  been  a  rule  with  me  when  1  have 
imitated  a  passage,  or  borrowed  an  expression,  to 
acknowledge  the  specific  obligation.  Upon  the 
present  occasion  it  behoves  me  to  state  the  more 
general  and  therefore  more  important  obligations 
which  I  am  conscious  of  owing  either  to  my  pred- 
ecessors or  my  contemporaries. 

My  first  attempts  in  verse  were  much  too  earl}' 
to  be  imitative  ;  but  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find 
my  way,  when  very  young,  into  the  rigiit  patli. 
I  read  the  "Jerusalem  Delivered  "  and  the  "Or- 
lando Furioso,  "  again  and  again,  in  Hoole's  trans- 
lations ;  it  was  for  the  sake  of  their  stories  that  I 
perused  and  re-perused  these  poems  with  ever- 
new  delight;  and  by  bringing  them  thus  within 
my  reach  in  boyhood,  the  translator  rendered  me 
a  service  which,  when  I  look  back  upon  my  in- 
tellectual life,  I  cannot  estimate  too  highly.  I 
owe  him  much  also  for  his  notes,  not  only  for  the 
information  concerning  other  Italian  romances 
which  they  imparted,  but  also  for  introducing  me 
to  Spenser;  —  how  early,  an  incident  which  I 
well  remember  may  show.  Going  with  a  relation 
into  Bull's  circulating  library  at  Batli,  (an  excel- 
lent one  for  those  day.s,)  and  asking  wlicthcr  they 


had  the  "  Faery  Queen,"  the  person  who  managed 
tlie  shop  said,  "  Yes,  they  liad  it,  but  it  was  in 
obsolete  language,  and  the  young  gentleman 
would  not  understand  it."  But  I,  who  had 
learned  all  I  then  knew  of  the  history  of  England 
from  Shakespear,  and  who  had  moreover  read 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  found  no  difficulty  in 
Spenser's  English,  and  felt  in  the  beauty  of  his 
versification  a  charm  in  poetry  of  which  I  had 
never  been  fully  sensible  before.  From  that  time 
1  took  Spenser  for  my  master.  I  drank  also  be- 
times of  Chaucer's  well.  The  taste  which  had 
been  acquired  in  that  school  was  confirmed  by 
Percy's  "Reliques"  and  Warton's  "History  of 
English  Poetry;"  and  a  little  later  by  Homer 
and  the  Bible.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  corrupted 

My  school-boy  verses  savored  of  Gray,  Mason, 
and  my  predecessor  Warton ;  and  in  the  best  of 
my  juvenile  pieces  it  may  be  seen  how  much  the 
writer's  mind  had  been  imbued  by  Akenside.  I 
am  conscious  also  of  having  derived  much  benefit 
at  one  time  from  Cowper,  and  more  from  Bowles ; 
for  which,  and  for  the  delight  which  his  poems 
gave  me  at  an  age  when  we  are  most  susceptible 
of  such  delight,  my  good  friend  at  Bremhill,  to 
whom  I  was  then  and  long  afterwards  personally 
unknown,  will  allow  me  to  make  this  grateful  and 
cordial  acknowledgment. 

My  obligation  to  Dr.  Sayers  is  of  a  different 
kind.  Every  one  who  has  an  ear  for  metre  and  a 
lieart  for  poetry,  must  have  felt  how  perfectly  the 
metre  of  Collins's  "Ode  to  Evening"  is  in  accord- 
ance with  the  imagery  and  the  feeling.  None 
of  the  experiments  which  were  made  of  other 
unrhymcd  stanzas  proved  successful.  They  were 
either  in  strongly-marked  and  well-known 
measures,  which  unavoidably  led  the  reader  to 
expect  rhyme,  and  consequently  balked  him 
when  he  looked  for  it ;  or  they  were  in  stanzas 
as  cumbrous  as  they  were  ill  constructed.  Dr. 
Sayers  went  upon  a  different  principle,  and  suc- 
ceeded admirably.  I  read  his  "  Dramatic  Sketches 
of  Northern  Mythology"  when  they  were  first 
published,  and  convinced  myself,  when  1  had 
acquired  some  skill  in  versification,  that  the  kind 
of  verse  in  which  hie  choruses  were  composed  was 
not  less  applicable  to  narration  than  to  lyrical 
poetry.  Soon  after  I  had  begun  the  Arabian 
romance,  for  which  this  measure  seemed  the  most 
appropriate  vehicle,  "  Gebir"  fell  into  my  hands  ; 
and  my  verse  was  greatly  improved  by  it,  both 
in  vividness  and  strength.  Several  years  elapsed 
before  I  knew  that  Walter  Landor  was  the  author, 
and  more  before  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet 
the  person  to  whom  I  felt  myself  thus  beholden. 
The  days  which  I  have  passed  with  him  in  the 
Vale  of  Ewias.  at  Como,  and  lastly  in  the  neigh- 

borhood of  Bristol,  are  some  of  those  which  have 
left  with  me  "a  joy  for  memory." 

1  have  thus  acknowledged  all  the  specific  obli- 
gations to  my  elders  or  contemporaries  in  the  art, 
of  which  1  am  distinctly  conscious.  The  advan- 
tages arising  from  intima,te  intercourse  with  those 
who  were  engaged  in  similar  pursuits  cannot  be  in 
like  manner  specified,  because  in  their  nature  they 
are  imperceptible ;  but  of  such  advantages  no  man 
has  ever  possessed  more  or  greater,  than  at  differ- 
ent times  it  has  been  my  lot  to  enjoy.  Personal 
attachment  first,  and  family  circumstances  after- 
wards, connected  me  long  and  closely  with  Mr. 
Coleridge ;  and  three-and-thirty  years  have  rati- 
fied a  friendship  with  Mr.  Wordsworth,  which  we 
believe  will  not  terminate  with  this  life,  and 
which  it  is  a  pleasure  for  us  to  know  will  be  con- 
tinued and  cherished  as  an  heir-loom  by  those  who 
are  dearest  to  us  both. 

When  I  add,  what  has  been  the  greatest  of  all 
advantages,  that  I  have  passed  more  than  half  my 
life  in  retirement,  conversing  with  books  rather 
than  men,  constantly  and  unweariably  engaged  in 
literary  pursuits,  communing  with  my  own  heart, 
and  taking  that  course  which,  upon  mature  con- 
sideration, seemed  best  to  myself,  I  have  said  every 
thing  necessary  to  account  for  the  characteristics 
of  my  poetry,  whatever  they  may  be. 

It  was  in  a  mood  resembling  in  no  slight  degree 
that  wherewith  a  person  in  sound  health,  botli  of 
body  and  mind,  makes  his  will  and  sets  his 
worldly  affairs  in  order,  that  1  entered  upon  the 
serious  task  of  arranging  and  revising  the  whole 
of  my  poetical  works.  What,  indeed,  was  it  but 
to  bring  in  review  before  me  the  dreams  and  as- 
pirations of  my  youth,  and  the  feelings  whereto  1 
had  given  that  free  utterance  which  by  the  usages 
of  this  world  is  permitted  to  us  in  poetry,  and  in 
poetry  alone .'  Of  the  smaller  pieces  in  this  col- 
lection there  is  scarcely  one  concerning  which  1 
cannot  vividly  call  to  mind  when  and  where  it  was 
composed.  1  have  perfect  recollection  of  the  spots 
where  many,  not  of  the  scenes  only,  but  of  the 
images  which  1  have  described  from  nature,  were 
observed  and  noted.  And  how  would  it  be  possi- 
ble for  me  to  forget  the  interest  taken  in  these 
poems,  especially  the  longer  and  more  ambitious 
works,  by  those  persons  nearest  and  dearest  to  me 
tlien,  who  witnessed  their  growth  and  completion  ' 
Well  may  it  be  called  a  serious  task  thus  to  resus- 
citate the  past!  But,  serious  though  it  be,  it  is  not 
painful  to  one  who  knows  that  the  end  of  his 
journey  cannot  be  far  distant,  and,  by  the  blessing 
of  God,  looks  on  to  its  termination  with  sure  and 
certain  hope. 

Keswick,  10th  May,  1837. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 

3onn   of  Ere. 


Pcrlego,  cognosces  animiim  sine  viribus  alaa 
Ingeiiii  explicuisse  Icves,  nam  vera  fatcbor ; 
Iniplumem  tcpido  prfficcps  me  g.oria  nido 
Expulit,  et  ca'lo  jussil  volitare  remoto. 
Poenitct  inctfpti,  cursum  revocare  juvente 
Si  liccat,  mansiiise  domi  cum  tempore  nervos 
Consolidasse  velim Petrarca 


Earlv  in  July,  1793,  1  happened  to  fall  in  con- 
versation, at  Oxford,  with  an  old  schoolfellow  upon 
the  story  of  Joan  of  Arc ;  and  it  then  struck  me  as 
being  singularly  well  adapted  for  a  poem.  The 
long  vacation  commenced  immediately  afterwards. 
As  soon  as  I  reached  home  I  formed  the  outline 
of  a  plan,  and  wTote  about  three  hundred  lines. 
The  remainder  of  the  month  was  passed  in  trav- 
elling ;  and  I  was  too  much  engaged  in  new  scenes 
and  circumstances  to  proceed,  even  in  thought, 
with  what  had  been  broken  off.  In  August  1 
went  to  visit  my  old  schoolfellow,  Mr.  Grosvcnor 
Bedford,  who,  at  that  time,  resided  with  his  pa- 
rents at  Brixton  Causew.ay,  about  four  miles  on 
tlic  Surrey  side  of  the  metropolis.  Tlioro,  the  day 
after  completing  my  nineteenth  year,  1  resumed 
the  undertaking,  and  there,  in  six  weeks  from  that 
day,  finished  what  I  called  an  Epic  Poem  in  twelve 

My  progress  would  not  have  been  so  rapid  had 
it  not  been  for  the  opportunity  of  retirement  which 
I  enjoyed  there,  and  the  encouragement  that  I 
received.  In  those  days  London  had  not  extended 
in  that  direction  farther  than  Kennington,  beyond 
which  place  the  scene  changed  suddenly,  and 
there  was  an  air  and  appearance  of  country  which 
might  now  be  sought  in  vain  at  a  far  greater  dis- 
tance from  town.  There  was  nothing  indeed  to 
remind  one  that  London  was  so  near,  except  the 
smoke  which  overhung  it.  Mr.  Bedford's  res- 
idence was  situated  upon  the  edge  of  a  common, 
on  which  shady  lanes  opened  leading  to  the  neigh- 
boring villages  (for  such  tliey  were  then)  of  Cam- 
bcrwell,  Dulwich,  and  Clapham,  and  to  Norwood. 
The  view  in  front  was  bounded  by  the  Surrey 
hills.  Its  size  and  structure  showed  it  to  be  one 
of  those  good  houses  built  in  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century  by  persons  who,  having  realized  a 
respectable  fortune  in  trade,  were  wise  enough  to 
be  contented  with  it,  and  retire  to  pass  the  evening 
of  tlieir  lives  in  the  enjoyment  of  leisure  and  tran- 
quillitv.  Tranquil  indeed  the  place  was  ;  for  the 
neighborhood  did  not  extend  l)oyond  half  a  dozen 
families,  and  the  London  style  and  habits  of  vis- 

iting  had  not  obtained  among  them.  Uncle  Toby 
himself  might  have  enjoyed  his  rood  and  a  half  of 
ground  there,  and  not  have  had  it  known.  A  fore- 
court separated  the  house  from  the  foot-path  and 
the  road  in  front;  behind,  there  was  a  large  and 
well-stocked  garden,  with  other  spacious  premises, 
in  which  utility  and  ornament  were  in  some  degree 
combined.  At  the  extremity  of  the  garden,  and 
under  the  shade  of  four  lofty  linden  trees,  was  a 
summer-house  looking  on  an  ornamented  grass- 
plot,  and  fitted  up  as  a  conveniently  habitable 
room.  That  summer-house  was  allotted  to  me, 
nnd  tliere  my  mornings  were  passed  at  the  desk. 
Whether  it  exists  now  or  not,  I  am  ignorant.  The 
property  has  long  since  passed  into  other  hands. 
Tlie  common  is  enclosed  and  divided  by  rectangu- 
lar hedges  and  palings  ;  rows  of  brick  houses  have 
supplanted  the  shade  of  oaks  and  elms  ;  the  brows 
of  the  Surrey  hills  bear  a  parapet  of  modern  villas, 
and  the  face  of  the  whole  district  is  changed. 

I  was  not  a  little  proud  of  my  performance. 
Young  poets  arc,  or  at  least  used  to  be,  as  am- 
bitious of  producing  an  epic  poem,  as  stage-stricken 
youths  of  figuring  in  Romeo  or  Hamlet.  It  had 
been  the  earliest  of  my  day-dreams.  I  had  ben-un 
many  such  ;  but  this  was  the  first  which  had  been 
completed,  and  I  was  too  young  and  too  ardent  to 
perceive  or  suspect  that  the  execution  was  as 
crude  as  the  design.  In  the  course  of  the  autumn 
I  transcribed  it  fairly  from  the  first  draught,  making 
no  other  alterations  or  corrections  of  any  kind  than 
suoli  as  suggested  themselves  in  the  act  of  tran- 
scription. Upon  showing  it  to  the  friend  in  con- 
versation with  whom  the  design  had  originated, 
he  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  written  this;  it  will 
serve  as  a  store  where  you  will  find  good  passages 
for  better  poems."  His  opinion  of  it  was  more 
judicious  than  mine ;  but  what  there  was  good  in 
it  or  promising,  would  not  have  b(>cn  transplantable. 

Toward  the  close  of  1794,  it  was  announced  as 
to  be  publislied  by  subscription  in  a  quarto  volume, 
price  one  guinea.  Shortly  afterwards  I  became 
acquainted  witli  my  fellow-townsman,  Mr.  Joseph 
Cottle,  who  had  recently  commenced  business  as 
a  bookseller  in  our  native  citj'  of  Bristol.  One 
evening  I  read  to  him  part  of  the  poem,  without 


PREFACE    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

any  Uiought  of"  making  a  proposal  concerning  it,  j 
or  expectation  of  receiving  one.  He,  liowever, 
offered  mo  fifty  guineas  for  tlie  copyright,  and  fifty 
copies  for  my  subscribers,  which  was  more  than 
tiie  list  amounted  to  ;  and  the  offer  was  accepted 
;iH  ))ro:nplly  as  it  was  made.  It  can  rarely  happen 
that  a  young  autlior  should  meet  with  a  bookseller 
as  inexperienced  and  as  ardent  as  himself,  and  it 
would  be  still  more  extraordinary  if  such  mutual 
indiscretion  did  not  bring  with  it  cause  for  regret 
to  both.  But  this  transaction  was  the  commence- 
ment of  an  intimacy  which  has  continued,  without 
the  slightest  shade  of  displeasure  at  any  time,  on 
cither  side,  to  the  present  day. 

At  that  time,  few  books  were  printed  in  tlie 
country,  and  it  was  seldom  indeed  that  a  quarto 
volume  issued  from  a  provincial  press.  A  font  of 
new  types  was  ordered  for  what  was  intended  to 
be  tlie  handsomest  book  that  Bristol  had  ever  yet 
sent  forth ;  and  when  the  paper  arrived,  and  the 
printer  was  ready  to  commence  his  operations, 
nothing  had  been  done  toward  preparing  the  poem 
for  the  press,  except  that  a  few  verbal  alterations 
had  been  made.  I  was  not,  however,  without 
misgivings,  and  when  the  first  proof-sheet  was 
brought  me,  the  more  glaring  faults  of  the  com- 
position stared  me  in  the  face.  But  the  sight  of  a 
well-printed  page,  which  was  to  be  set  off"  with  all 
the  advantages  that  fine  wove  paper  and  hot-press- 
ing could  impart,  put  me  in  spirits,  and  I  went  to 
work  with  good-will.  About  half  the  first  book 
was  left  in  its  original  state ;  the  rest  of  the  poem 
was  re-cast  and  re-composed  while  the  printing 
went  on.  This  occupied  six  months.  I  corrected 
tlie  concluding  sheet  of  the  poem,  left  the  Preface 
in  the  publisher's  hands,  and  departed  for  Lisbon 
by  way  of  Coruria  and  Madrid. 

Tlie  Preface  was  written  with  as  little  discretion 
as  had  been  shown  in  publishing  the  work  itself 
It  stated  how  rapidly  the  poem  had  been  produced, 
and  that  it  had  been  almost  re-composed  during 
its  progress  through  the  press.  This  was  not  said 
as  taking  merit  for  haste  and  temerity,  nor  to 
excuse  its  faults,  —  only  to  account  for  them.  But 
here  I  was  liable  to  be  misapprehended,  and 
likely  to  be  misrepresented.  The  public  indeed 
care  neither  for  explanations  nor  excuses ;  and 
such  particulars  might  not  unfitly  be  deemed  un- 
becoming in  a  young  man,  though  they  may  be 
excused,  and  even  expected,  from  an  old  authoi, 
who,  at  the  close  of  a  long  career,  looks  upon  him- 
self as  belonging  to  the  past.  Omitting  these  pas- 
sages, and  the  specification  of  what  Mr.  Coleridge 
had  written  in  the  second  book,  (which  was  with- 
drawn in  the  next  edition,)  the  remainder  of  the 
Preface  is  here  subjoined.  It  states  the  little 
which  I  had  been  able  to  collect  concerning  the 
subject  of  the  poem,  gives  what  was  then  my  own 
view  of  Joan  of  Arc's  character  and  history,  and 
expresses  with  overweening  confidence  the  opin- 
ions which  the  writer  entertained  concerning  those 
poets  whom  it  was  his  ambition  not  to  imitate,  but 
to  follow.  —  It  cannot  bo  necessary  to  say,  that 
some  of  those  opinions  have  been  modified,  and 
others  completely  changed,  as  he  grew  older. 


The  history  of  Joan  of  Arc  is  as  mysterious  as 
it  is  remarkable.  That  slie  believed  herself  inspired, 
few  will  deny ;  that  she  was  inspired,  no  one  will 
venture  to  assert ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
she  was  herself  imposed  upon  by  Charles  and  Du- 
nois.  That  she  discovered  the  King  when  he  dis- 
guised himself  among  the  courtiers  to  deceive  her, 
and  that,  as  a  proof  of  her  mission,  she  demanded 
a  sword  from  a  tomb  in  the  church  of  St.  Catha- 
rine, are  facts  in  which  all  historians  agree.  If 
this  had  been  done  by  collusion,  the  Maid  must 
have  known  herself  an  impostor,  and  with  that 
knowledge  could  not  have  performed  tlie  enter- 
prise she  undertook.  Enthusiasm,  and  that  of  no 
common  kind,  was  necessary,  to  enable  a  young 
maiden  at  once  to  assume  the  profession  of  arms, 
to  lead  her  troops  to  battle,  to  fight  among  the 
foremost,  and  to  subdue  with  an  inferior  force  an 
enemy  then  believed  invincible.  It  is  not  possible 
that  one  who  felt  herself  the  puppet  of  a  part)', 
could  have  performed  these  things.  The  artifices 
of  a  court  could  not  have  persuaded  her  that  she 
discovered  Charles  in  disguise ;  nor  could  they 
have  prompted  her  to  demand  the  sword  which 
they  might  have  hidden,  without  discovering  the 
deceit.  The  Maid  then  was  not  knowingly  an 
impostor  ;  nor  could  she  have  been  the  instrument 
of  the  court ;  and  to  say  that  she  believed  herself 
inspired,  will  neither  account  for  her  singling  out 
the  King,  or  prophetically  claiming  the  sword. 
After  crowning  Charles,  she  declared  that  her 
mission  was  accomplished,  and  demanded  leave 
to  retire.  Enthusiasm  would  not  have  ceased 
here ;  and  if  they  who  imposed  on  her  could  per- 
suade her  still  to  go  with  their  armies,  they  could 
still  have  continued  her  delusion. 

This  mystcriousness  renders  the  story  of  Joan 
of  Arc  peculiarly  fit  for  poetry.  The  aid  of  angels 
and  devils  is  not  necessary  to  raise  her  above  man- 
kind ;  she  has  no  gods  to  lackey  her,  and  inspire 
her  with  courage,  and  heal  her  wounds :  the  Maid 
of  Orleans  acts  wholly  from  the  workings  of  her 
own  mind,  from  the  deep  feeling  of  inspiration. 
The  palpable  agency  of  superior  powers  would  de- 
stroy the  obscurity  of  her  character,  and  sink  her 
to  the  mere  heroine  of  a  fairy  tale. 

The  alterations  which  I  have  made  in  the  his- 
tory are  few  and  trifling.  The  death  of  Salisbury 
is  placed  later,  and  of  the  Talbots  earlier  than  they 
occurred.  As  the  battle  of  Patay  is  the  concluding 
action  of  the  Poem,  I  have  given  it  all  the  previous 
solemnity  of  a  settled  engagement.  Whatever 
appears  miraculous  is  asserted  in  history,  and  my 
authorities  will  be  found  in  the  notes. 

It  is  the  common  fault  of  Epic  Poems,  that  we 
feel  little  interest  for  the  heroes  they  celebrate. 
Tlie  national  vanity  of  a  Greek  or  a  Roman  might 
have  been  gratified  by  the  renown  of  Achilles  or 
iEneas;  but  to  engage  the  unprejudiced,  there 
must  be  more  of  human  feelings  than  is  generally 
to  be  found  in  the  character  of  a  warrior.  From 
this  objection,  the  Odyssey  alone  may  be  excepted. 


Ulysses  appears  as  tlic  fatlicr  and  the  liusband, 
and  the  afl'ections  are  enlisted  on  his  side.  The 
judirinent  must  applaud  the  well-digested  plan 
and  splendid  execution  of  the  Iliad,  but  the  heart 
always  bears  testimony  to  the  merit  of  the 
Odyssey :  it  is  the  poem  of  nature,  and  its  per- 
sonages inspire  love  rather  tlian  coiinnand  admira- 
tion. The  good  herdsman  Eumocus  is  worth  a 
thousand  heroes.  Homer  is,  indeed,  the  best  of 
poets,  for  he  is  at  once  dignified  and  simple  ;  but 
Pope  has  disguised  him  in  fop-finery,  and  Cowper 
has  stri])ped  him  naked. 

Tliere  are  few  readers  who  do  not  prefer  Turnus 
to  iEneas  —  a  fugitive,  suspected  of  treason,  who 
negligently  left  his  wife,  seduced  Dido,  deserted 
her,  and  then  forcibly  took  Lavinia  from  her  be- 
trothed husband.  What  avails  a  man's  piety  to 
the  gods,  if  in  all  his  dealings  with  men  he  prove 
himself  a  villain?  If  we  represent  Deity  as  com- 
manding a  bad  action,  this  is  not  exculpating  the 
man,  but  criminating  the  God. 

The  ill-chosen  subjects  of  Lucan  and  Statius 
have  prevented  them  from  acquiring  the  popularity 
they  would  otherwise  have  merited ;  yet  in  de- 
tached parts,  the  former  of  these  is  perhaps  un- 
equalled, certainly  unexcelled.  I  do  not  scruple 
to  prefer  Statius  to  Virgil ;  with  inferior  taste, 
he  appears  to  me  to  possess  a  richer  and  more 
powerful  imagination ;  his  images  are  strongly 
conceived,  and  clearly  painted,  and  the  force  of 
his  language,  while  it  m.nkes  the  reader  feel, 
proves  that  the  author  felt  himself. 

The  power  of  story  is  strikingly  exemplified  in 
the  Italian  heroic  poets.  They  please  universally, 
even  in  translations,  when  little  but  the  story  re- 
mains. In  proportioning  his  characters,  Tasso 
has  erred ;  Godfrey  is  the  hero  of  the  poCIn,  Ri- 
naldoof  the  poet,  and  Tan-red  of  the  reader.  Sec- 
ondary characters  should  not  be  introduced,  like 
Gyas  and  Cloanthus,  mcnly  to  fill  a  procession  ; 
neither  should  they  be  so  prominent  as  to  throw 
the  principal  into  shade. 

The  lawless  magic  of  Ariosto,  and  the  singular 
theme  as  well  as  the  singular  excellence  of  Milton, 
render  it  impossible  to  deduce  any  rules  of  epic 
poetry  from  these  authors.  So  likewise  with 
Spenser,  the  favorite  of  my  childhood,  from  whose 
frequent  perusal  I  have  always  found  increased 

Against  the  machinery  of  Camocns,  a  heavier 
charge  must  be  brought  than  that  of  profaneness 
or  incongruity.  His  floating  island  is  but  a  float- 
ing brothel,  and  no  beauty  can  make  atonement 
for  licentiousness.  From  this  accusation,  none 
but  a  translator  would  attempt  to  justify  him  ;  but 
Camoens  had  the  most  abk;  of  translators.  The 
Lusiad,  though  excellent  in  parts,  is  uninteresting 
as  a  whole  :  it  is  read  with  little  emotion,  and 
remembered  with  little  pleasure.  But  it  was  com- 
posed in  the  anguish  of  disappointed  hopes,  in 
the  fatigues  of  war,  and  in  a  country  far  from  all 
he  loved  ;  and  we  should  not  forget,  that  as  the 
Poet  of  Portugal  was  among  the  most  unfortunate 
of  men,  so  he  should  be  ranked  among  the  most 
respectable.     Neither  his  own  coimfry    or    Spain 

has  yet  produced  his  equal :  his  heart  was  broken 
by  calamity,  but  the  spirit  of  integrity  and  inde- 
pendence never  forsook  Camoens. 

1  have  endeavored  to  avoid  what  appears  to  me 
the  common  fault  of  epic  poems,  and  to  render  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  interesting.  With  tliis  intent  1 
liave  given  her,  not  the  passion  of  love,  but  the 
remembrance  of  subdued  affection,  a  lingering  of 
human  feelings  not  inconsistent  with  the  enthu- 
siasm and  holiness  of  her  character. 

The  multitude  of  obscure  epic  writers  copy  with 
the  most  gross  servility  their  ancient  models.  If 
a  tempest  occurs,  some  envious  spirit  procures  it 
from  the  God  of  the  winds  or  the  God  of  the  sea. 
Is  there  a  town  besieged  ?  the  eyes  of  the  hero 
are  opened,  and  he  beholds  the  powers  of  Heaven 
assisting  in  the  attack  ;  an  angel  is  at  hand  to 
heal  his  wounds,  and  the  leader  of  the  enemy  in 
his  last  combat  is  seized  with  the  sudden  cowardice 
of  Hector.  Even  Tasso  is  too  often  an  imitator. 
But  notwithstanding  the  censure  of  a  satirist,  the 
name  of  Tasso  will  still  be  ranked  among  the  best 
heroic  poets.  Perhaps  Boileau  only  condemned 
him  for  the  sake  of  an  antithesis  ;  it  is  with  such 
writers,  as  with  those  who  afft'ct  point  in  their 
conversation  —  they  will  always  sacrifice  truth  to 
the  gratification  of  their  vanity. 

1  have  avoided  what  seems  useless  and  wearying 
in  other  poems,  and  my  readers  will  find  no  de- 
scriptions of  armor,  no  muster-rolls,  no  geographi- 
cal catalogues,  lion,  tiger,  bull,  bear,  and  boar 
similes,  Phoebuses  or  Auroras.  And  where  in 
battle  1  have  particularized  the  death  of  an  indi- 
vidual, it  is  not,  I  hope,  like  the  common  lists  of 
killed  and  wounded. 

It  has  been  established  as  a  necessary  rule  for 
the  epic,  that  the  subject  should  be  national.  To 
tliis  rule  I  have  acted  in  direct  opposition,  and 
chosen  for  the  subject  of  my  poem  the  defeat  of 
the  English.  If  there  be  any  readers  who  can 
wish  success  to  an  unjust  cause,  because  their 
country  was  engaged  in  it,  1  desire  not  their  ap- 

In  Millin's  National  Antiquities  of  France,  1 
find  that  M.  Laverdj-  wa?,  in  1791,  occupied  in 
collecting  whatever  has  been  written  concerning 
the  Maid  of  Orleans.  1  have  anxiously  looked  for 
his  work,  but  it  is  probable,  considering  the  tumults 
of  the  intervening  period,  that  it  has  not  been 
accomplished.  Of  the  various  productions  to  the 
memory  of  Joan  of  Arc,  1  have  only  collected  a 
few  titles,  and,  if  report  may  be  trusted,  need  not 
fear  a  heavier  condemnation  than  to  be  deemed 
equally  bad.  A  regular  canon  of  St.  Euverte  has 
written  what  is  said  to  be  a  very  bad  poem,  en- 
titled the  Modern  Amazon.  There  is  a  prose 
tragedy  called  Im  Pncellc  d' Orleans,  variously 
attributed  to  Benserade,  to  Boyer,  and  to  Me- 
nardiere.  The  abbe  Daubignac  published  a  prose 
tragedy  with  the  same  title  in  1642.  There  is 
one  under  the  name  of  Jean  Barucl  of  1581,  and 
another  printed  anonymously  at  Rouen,  1006. 
Among  the  manuscripts  of  the  queen  of  Sweden 
in  the  Vatican,  is  a  dramatic  piece  in  verse  called 
Le  Mijslerc  (III  Sifge  d' Orleans.     In  these  modern 


PREFACE    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

times,  says  Millin,  all  Paris  has  run  to  the  theatre 
of  Nicolet  to  see  a  pantomime  entitled  Lc  Fanieux 
Siege  de  la  Pucelle  d' Orleans.  I  may  add,  that, 
after  the  publication  of  this  poem,  a  pantomime 
upon  the  same  Kubject  was  brought  forward  at 
Covent-Garden  Theatre,  in  which  the  heroine, 
like  Don  Juan,  was  carried  off  by  devils  and  pre- 
cipitated alive  into  hell.  I  mention  it,  because  the 
feelings  of  the  audience  revolted  at  such  a  catas- 
trophe, and,  after  a  few  nights,  an  angel  was  in- 
troduced to  rescue  her. 

But  among  tlie  number  of  worthless  poems 
upon  this  subject,  there  are  two  which  are  un- 
fortunately notorious,  —  the  Pucelles  of  Chapelain 
and  Voltaire.  I  have  had  patience  to  peruse  the 
first,  and  never  have  been  guilty  of  looking  into 
the  second  ;  it  is  well  said  by  George  Herbert, 

Make  not  thy  sport  abuses,  for  the  fly 
Tliat  feeds  on  dung,  is  colored  thereby. 

On  the  eighth  of  May,  the  anniversary  of  its 
deliverance,  an  annual  fete  is  held  at  Orleans ; 
and  monuments  have  been  erected  there  and  at 
Rouen  to  the  memory  of  the  Maid.  Her  family 
was  ennobled  by  Charles ;  but  it  should  not  be 
forgotten  in  the  history  of  this  monarch,  that  in 
the  hour  of  misfortune  he  abandoned  to  her  iate 
the  woman  who  had  saved  his  kingdom. 

Bristol,  November,  1795. 

The  poem,  thus  crudely  conceived,  rashly 
prefaced,  and  prematurely  hurried  into  the  world, 
was  nevertheless  favorably  received,  owing  chiefly 
to  adventitious  circumstances.  A  work  of  the 
same  class,  with  as  much  power  and  fewer  faults, 
if  it  were  published  now,  would  attract  little  or  no 
attention.  One  thing  which  contributed  to  bring 
it  into  immediate  notice  was,  that  no  poem  of 
equal  pretension  had  appeared  for  many  years, 
except  Glover's  Athenaid,  which,  notwithstanding 
the  reputation  of  his  Leonidas,  had  been  utterly 
neglected.  But  the  chief  cause  of  its  favorable 
reception  was,  that  it  was  written  in  a  republican 
spirit,  such  as  may  easily  be  accounted  for  in  a 
youth  whose  notions  of  liberty  were  taken  from 
the  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  and  who  was  ig- 
norant enough  of  history  and  of  human  nature  to 
believe,  that  a  happier  order  of  things  had  com- 
menced with  the  independence  of  the  United 
States,  and  would  be  accelerated  by  the  French 
Revolution.  Such  opinions  were  then  as  unpopu- 
lar in  England  as  they  deserved  to  be ;  but  they 
were  cherished  by  most  of  the  critical  journals, 
and  conciliated  for  me  the  good-will  of  some  of  the 
most  influential  writers  who  were  at  that  time 
engaged  in  periodical  literature,  though  1  was 
personally  unknown  to  thorn.  Tliey  bestowed 
upon  the  poem  abundant  praise,  passed  over  most 
of  its  manifold  faults,  and  noticed  others  with  in- 
dulgence. Miss  Seward  wrote  some  verses  upon 
it  in  a  strain  of  the  highest  eulogy  and  the  bitter- 
est  invective ;  they   were   sent   to   the   Morning 

Chronicle,  and  the  editor  (Mr.  Perry)  accom- 
panied their  insertion  with  a  vindication  of  the 
opinions  which  she  had  so  vehemently  denounced. 
Miss  Seward  was  then  in  liigh  reputation ;  the 
sincerity  of  her  praise  was  proved  by  the  sever- 
ity of  her  censure ;  and  nothing  could  have  been 
more  serviceable  to  a  young  author  than  her  no- 
tice, thus  indignantly,  but  also  thus  generously, 
bestowed.  The  approbation  of  the  reviewers 
served  as  a  passport  lor  the  poem  to  America,  and 
it  was  reprinted  there  while  I  was  revising  it  for  a 
second  edition. 

A  work,  in  which  the  author  and  the  book- 
seller had  engaged  with  equal  imprudence,  thus 
proved  beneficial  to  both.  It  made  me  so  advan- 
tageously known  as  a  poet,  that  no  subsequent 
hostility  on  the  part  of  the  reviews  could  pull 
down  the  reputation  which  had  been  raised  by 
their  good  offices.  Before  that  hostility  took  its 
determined  character,  the  charge  of  being  a  hasty 
and  careless  writer  was  frequently  brought  against 
me.  Yet  to  have  been  six  months  correcting  what 
was  written  in  six  weeks,  was  some  indication  of 
patient  industry ;  and  of  this  the  second  edition 
gave  further  evidence.  Taking  for  a  second  motto 
the  words  of  Erasmus,  (It  homines  ita  libros,  in- 
dies scipsis  meliores  fieri  oportet,  I  spared  no  pains 
to  render  the  poem  less  faulty  both  in  its  con- 
struction and  composition ;  1  wrote  a  new  begin- 
ning, threw  out  much  of  what  had  remained  of 
the  original  draught,  altered  more,  and  endeavored, 
from  all  the  materials  which  1  had  means  of  con- 
sulting, to  make  myself  better  acquainted  with 
the  manners  and  circumstances  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  Thus  the  second  edition  differed  almost 
as  much  from  the  first,  as  that  from  the  copy 
which  was  originally  intended  for  publication. 
Less  extensive  alterations  were  made  in  two  sub- 
sequent editions ;  the  fifth  was  only  a  reprint  of 
the  fourth ;  by  that  time  1  had  become  fully  sen- 
sible of  its  great  and  numerous  faults,  and  request- 
ed the  reader  to  remember,  as  tlie  only  apology 
which  could  be  offered  for  them,  that  the  poem 
was  written  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and  published 
at  one-and-twenty.  My  intention  then  was,  to 
take  no  further  pains  in  correcting  a  work  of 
which  the  inherent  defects  were  incorrigible  ;  and 
1  did  not  look  into  it  again  for  many  years. 

But  now,  when  about  to  perform  what  at  my 
acre  may  almost  be  called  the  testamentary  task  of 
revising,  in  all  likelihood  for  the  last  time,  those 
works  by  which  it  was  my  youthful  ambition  "  to 
be  forever  known,"  and  part  whereof  1  dare  be- 
lieve has  been  "  so  written  to  after  times  as  they 
should  not  willingly  let  it  die,"  it  appeared  proper 
that  this  poem,  through  which  the  author  had  been 
first  made  known  to  the  public,  two-and-forty 
years  ago,  should  lead  the  way  ;  and  the  thought 
that  it  was  once  more  to  pass  through  the  press 
under  my  own  inspection,  induced  a  feeling  in 
some  respects  resembling  that  with  which  it  had 
been  first  delivered  to  the  printer  —  and  yet  how 
different!  for  not  in  hope  and  ardor,  nor  with 
the  impossible  intention  of  rendering  it  what  it 
might  have  been  had  it  been  planned  and  execu- 

BOOK    I. 

JOAN    OF   ARC, 


UhI  ill  iiiiddlc  liff,  did  I  resolve  to  correct  it  once 
iiioro  tliroughout;  but  lor  tlie  purpose  of  iiiukiiig 
it  more  consistent  with  itself  in  diction,  and  less 
inconsistent  in  other  things  with  the  well-\vei<rhed 
opinions  of  my  maturer  years.  The  faults  of 
effort,  which  may  generally  be  regarded  as  hope- 
ful indications  in  a  juvenile  writer,  have  been 
mostly  lefl  as  they  were.  The  faults  of  language 
which  remained  from  the  first  edition  have  been 
removed,  so  that  in  this  respect  the  whole  is 
sufticiently  in  keeping.  And  for  those  which 
expressed  the  political  prejudices  of  a  young  man 
who  had  too  little  knowledge  to  suspect  his  own 
ignorance,  they  have  either  been  expunged,  or 
altered,  or  such  substitutions  have  been  made  for 
them  as  harmonize  with  the  pervading  spirit  of 
the  poem,  and  are  nevertheless  in  accord  with 
those  opinions  which  the  author  has  maintained 
for  thirty  years,  through  good  and  evil  report,  in 
the  maturity  of  his  judgment  as  well  as  in  tlio 
sincerity  of  his  heart. 

Keswick,  August  30,  1837. 


Edith  !  I  brought  thee  late  a  humble  gift. 

The  songs  of  earlier  youth  ;  it  was  a  wreath 

With  many  an  unripe  blossom  garlanded 

And  many  a  weed,  yet  mingled  with  some  flowers 

Which  will  not  wither.     Dearest !  now  I  bring 

A  worthier  offering  ;  thou  wilt  prize  it  well, 

For  well  thou  know'st  amid  what  painful  cares 

My  solace  was  in  this  :  and  though  to  me 

There  is  no  music  in  the  hollowness 

Of  connnon  praise,  yet  well  content  am  I 

Now  to  look  back  upon  my  youth's  green  prime. 

Nor  idly,  nor  unprofitably  past, 

Imping  in  such  adventurous  essay 

The  wing,  and  strengthening  it  for  steadier  flight. 

KuRTON,  near  Christ  Church,  1797. 


There  was  high  feasting  held  at  Vaucouleur, 
For  old  Sir  Robert  had  a  famous  guest. 
The  Bastard  Orleans  ;  and  the  festive  hours, 
Cheer'd  with  the  Trobador's  sweet  minstrelsy, 
Pass'd  gayly  at  his  hospitable  board. 
But  not  to  share  the  hospitable  board 
And  hear  sweet  minstrelsy,  Dunois  had  sought 
Sir  Robert's  hall ;  he  came  to  rouse  Lorraine, 
And  glean  what  force  the  wasting  war  had  left 
For  one  last  effort.     Little  had  the  war 
Left  in  Lorraine,  but  age,  and  youth  unripe 
For  slaughter  yet,  and  widows,  and  young  maids 
Of  widow'd  loves.     And  now  with  his  great  guest 
The  Lord  of  Vaucouleur  sat  communing 
On  what  might  profit  France,  and  found  no  hope, 
Despairing  of  their  country,  when  he  heard 

\n  old  man  and  a  maid  awaited  him 
In  the  castle-hall.     He  knew  the  old  man  well, 
His  vassal  Claude ;  and  at  his  bidding  Claude 
Approach'd,  and  after  meet  obeisance  made, 
Bespake  Sir  Robert. 

"  Good  my  Lord,  I  come 
With  a  strange  tale ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me 
If  it  should  seem  impertinent,  and  like 
An  old  man's  weakness.     But,  in  truth,  this  Maid 
Hath  with  such  boding  thoughts  impress'd  my  heart, 
I  think  1  could  not  longer  sleep  in  peace 
Gainsaying  what  she  sought.     She  saith  that  God 
Bids  her  go  drive  the  Englishmen  from  France  ! 
Her  parents  mock  at  her  and  call  her  crazed, 
And  father  Regnier  says  she  is  possess'd  ;  — 
But  1,  who  know  that  never  thought  of  ill 
Found  entrance  in  her  heart,  —  for,  good  my  Lord, 
From  her  first  birth-day  she  hath  been  to  me 
As  mine  own  child,  —  and  I  am  an  old  man, 
Who  have  seen  many  moon-struck  in  my  time, 
And  some  who  were  by  evil  Spirits  vex'd, — 
I,  Sirs,  do  think  that  there  is  more  in  this. 
And  who  can  tell  but,  in  these  perilous  times. 
It  may  please  God,  —  but  hear  the  Maid  yourselves, 
For  if,  as  1  believe,  this  is  of  Heaven, 
My  silly  speech  doth  wrong  it." 

While  he  spake, 
Curious  they  mark'd  the  Damsel.     She  appear'd 
Of  eighteen  years;  there  was  no  bloom  of  youth 
Upon  her  cheek,  yet  had  the  loveliest  hues 
Of  health  with  lesser  fascination  fi.x'd 
The  gazer's  eye  ;  for  wan  the  Maiden  was. 
Of  saintly  paleness,  and  there  seem'd  to  dwell 
In  the  strong  beauties  of  her  countenance 
Something  that  was  not  earthly. 

"  1  have  heard 
Of  this  your  niece's  malady,"  replied 
The  Lord  of  Vaucouleur,  "  that  she  frequents 
The  loneliest  haunts  and  deepest  solitude. 
Estranged  from  human  kind  and  human  cares 
With  loathing  like  to  madness.     It  were  best 
To  place  her  with  some  pious  sisterhood. 
Who  duly,  moru  and  eve,  for  her  soul's  health 
Soliciting  Heaven,  may  likeliest  remedy 
The 'stricken  mind,  or  frenzied  or  possess'd." 

So  as  Sir  Robert  ceased,  the  Maiden  cried, 

"  I  am  not  mad.     Possess'd  indeed  I  am ! 

The  hand  of  God  is  strong  upon  my  soul. 

And  I  have  wrestled  vainly  with  the  Lord, 

And  stubbornly,  I  fear  me.     I  can  save 

This  country.  Sir !  I  can  deliver  France  I 

Yea —  I  must  save  the  country  !  —  God  is  in  me ; 

I  speak  not,  think  not,  feel  not  of  myself. 

He  knew  and  sanctified  me  ere  my  birth; 

Hk  to  the  nations  hath  ordained  me; 

And  whither  he  shall  send  me,  I  must  go; 

And  whatso  he  commands,  that  I  nmst  speak ; 

And  whatso  is  his  will,  that  I  must  do; 

And  I  must  put  away  all  fear  of  man. 

Lest  HE  in  wrath  confound  me." 

At  the  first 
With  pity  or  with  scorn  Dunois  had  heard 
The  Maid  inspired ;  but  now  he  in  his  heart 
Felt  that  misgiving  which  precedes  belief 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    I. 

In  what  was  disbelieved  and  scoff 'd  at  late 
For  folly.     "  Damsel  !  "  said  the  Chief,  "  methinks 
It  would  be  wisely  done  to  doubt  this  call, 
Haply  of  some  ill  Spirit  prompting  thee 
To  self-destruction."     . 

"  Doubt !  "  the  Maid  exclaim'd  : 
It  were  as  easy  when  I  gaze  around 
On  all  this  fair  variety  of  things, 
Green  fields  and  tufted  woods,  and  the  blue  depth 
Of  heaven,  and  yonder  glorious  sun,  to  doubt 
Creating  wisdom  !  —  When  in  the  evening  gale 
I  breathe  the  mingled  odors  of  the  spring, 
And  hear  the  wildwood  melody,  and  hear 
The  populous  air  vocal  with  insect  life. 
To  doubt  God's  goodness !  There  are  feelings.  Chief, 
Which  cannot  lie ;  and  1  have  oftentimes 
Felt  in  the  midnight  silence  of  my  soul 
The  call  of  God." 

They  listened  to  the  Maid, 
And  they  almost  believed.     Then  spake  Dunois, 
"  Wilt  thou  go  with  me.  Maiden,  to  the  King, 
And  there  announce  thy  mission.'  "  Thus  he  said. 
For  thoughts  of  politic  craftiness  arose 
Within  him,  and  his  faith,  yet  unconfirm'd, 
Determin'd  to  prompt  action.     She  replied, 
"  Therefore  I  sought  the  Lord  of  Vaucouleur, 
That  with  sucli  credence  as  prevents  delay, 
He  to  the  King  might  send  me.     Now  beseech  you 
Speed  our  departure  ! ' ' 

Then  Dunois  address'd 
Sir  Robert,  "  Fare  thee  well,  my  friend  and  host ! 
It  were  ill  done  to  linger  here  when  Heaven 
Vouchsafes  such  strange  assistance.    Let  what  force 
Lorraine  can  raise  to  Chinon  follow  us  ; 
And  with  the  tidings  of  this  holy  Maid, 
Sent  by  the  Lord,  fill  thou  the  country;  soon 
Therewith  shall  France  awake  as  from  the  sleep 
Of  death.     Now,  Maid  !  depart  we  at  thy  will." 

"  God's  blessing  go  with  ye!  "exclaim'd  old  Claude, 
"  Good  Angels  guard  my  girl !  "  and  as  he  spake 
The  tears  stream'd  fast  adown  his  aged  cheeks. 
"  And  if  I  do  not  live  to  see  thee  more. 
As  sure  1  think  I  shall  not,  —  yet  sometimes 
Remember  thine  old  Uncle.     I  have  loved  thee 
Even  from  thy  childhood,  Joan  !  and  I  shall  lose 
The  comfort  of  mine  age  in  losing  thee. 
But  God  be  with  thee.  Child  !  " 

Nor  was  the  Maid, 
Though  all  subdued  of  soul,  untroubled  now 
In  that  sad  parting;  —  but  slie  calm'd  herself. 
Painfully  keeping  down  her  heart,  and  said, 
"  Comfort  thyself,  my  Uncle,  with  the  thought 
Of  what  I  am,  and  for  what  enterprise 
Chosen  from  among  the  people.     Oh  !  be  sure 
I  shall  remember  thee,  in  whom  I  found 
A  parent's  love,  when  parents  were  unkind  ! 
And  when  the  ominous  broodings  of  my  soul 
Were  scoft'd  and  made  a  mock  of  by  all  else. 
Thou  for  thy  love  didst  hear  me  and  believe. 
Shall  I  forget  these  things  ,'  "  —  By  this  Dunois 
Had  arm'd,  the  steeds  stood  ready  at  the  gate. 
But  then  she  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck 
And   cried,    "  Pray   for  me  !  —  I  shall    need    thy 
prayers ' 

Pray  for  me,  that  I  fail  not  in  my  hour !  " 
Thereat  awhile,  as  if  some  awful  thought 
Had  overpower'd  her,  on  his  neck  she  hung ; 
Then  rising  with  flush'd  cheek  and  kindling  eye, 
"  Farewell !  "  quoth  she,  "  and  live  in  hope  !  Anon 
Thou  shalt  hear  tidings  to  rejoice  thy  heart, 
Tidings  of  joy  for  all,  but  most  for  thee  ! 
Be  this  thy  comfort!  "     The  old  man  received 
Her  last  embrace,  and  weeping  like  a  cliild, 
Scarcely  through  tears  could  see  them  on  their  steeds 
Spring  up,  and  go  their  way. 

So  on  they  went. 
And  now  along  the  mountain's  winding  path 
Upward  they  journey'd  slow,  and  now  they  paused 
And  gazed  where  o'er  the  plain  the  stately  towers 
Of  Vaucouleur  arose,  in  distance  seen. 
Dark  and  distinct ;  below  its  castled  height, 
Througli  fair  and  fertile  pastures,  the  deep  Meuse 
Roll'd  glittering  on.     Domremi's  cottages 
Gleam'd  in  the  sun  hard  by,  white  cottages. 
That  in  the  evening  traveller's  weary  mind 
Had  waken'd  thoughts  of  comfort  and  of  home. 
Making  him  yearn  for  rest.     But  on  one  spot. 
One  little  spot,  the  Virgin's  eye  was  fix'd, 
Her  native  Arc  ;  embower'd  the  hamlet  lay 
Upon  the  forest  edge,  whose  ancient  woods, 
With  all  their  infinite  varieties. 
Now  form'd  a  mass  of  shade.     The  distant  plain 
Rose  on  the  horizon  rich  with  pleasant  groves, 
And  vineyards  in  the  greenest  hue  of  spring, 
And  streams  now  hidden  on  their  winding  way, 
Now  issuing  forth  in  light. 

The  Maiden  gazed 
i^Till  all  grew  dim  upon  her  dizzy  eye. 
^'  Oh  what  a  blessed  world  were  this !  "  she  cried, 
"  But  that  the  great  and  honorable  men 
Have  seized  the  earth,  and  of  the  heritage 
Which  God,  the  Sire  of  all,  to  all  had  given. 
Disherited  their  brethren  !     Happy  those 
Who  in  the  after  days  shall  live,  when  Time 
Hath  spoken,  and  the  multitude  of  years 
Taught  wisdom  to  mankind  !  —  Unhappy  France  ! 
Fiercer  than  evening  wolves  thy  bitter  foes 
Rush  o'er  the  land,  and  desolate,  and  kill; 
Long  has  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  groan 
Accused  Heaven's  justice  ;  — but  the  hour  is  come  ! 
God  hath  inclined  his  ear,  hath  heard  the  voice 
Of  mourning,  and  his  anger  is  gone  forth." 

Then  said  the  Son  of  Orleans,  "  Holy  Maid  ! 

Fain  would  I  know,  if  blameless  I  may  seek 

Such  knowledge,  how  the  heavenly  call  was  heard 

First  in  thy  waken'd  soul ;  nor  deem  in  me 

Aught  idly  curious,  if  of  thy  past  life 

I  ask  the  story.     In  the  hour  of  age. 

If  haply  I  survive  to  see  this  realm 

Deliver'd,  precious  then  will  be  the  thought 

That  I  have  known  the  delegated  Maid, 

And  heard  from  her  the  wondrous  ways  of  Heaven. 

"  A  simple  tale,"  the  mission'd  Maid  replied  : 
"  Yet  may  it  well  employ  the  journeying  hour, 
And  pleasant  is  the  memory  of  the  past. 

"  Seest  thou,  Sir  Chief,  where  yonder  forest  skirts 

BOOK    I. 

JOAN    OF   ARC. 


The  Mouse,  that  in  its  winding  mazes  shows, 

As  on  the  fartlier  bank,  the  distant  towers 

Of  Vaucouleur  ?  there  in  the  hanalet  Arc 

My  father's  dwelling  stands;"  a  lowly  hut, 

Yet  nought  of  needful  comfort  did  it  lack. 

For  in  Lorraine  tliere  lived  no  kinder  Lord 

Than  old  Sir  Robert,  and  my  father  Jaques 

In  flocks  and  herds  was  rich ;  a  toiling  man. 

Intent  on  worldly  gains,  one  in  whose  heart 

Affection  had  no  root.     I  never  knew 

A  parent's  love ;  for  harsh  my  mother  was, 

And  deem'd  the  care  which  infancy  demands 

Irksome,  and  ill-repaid.     Severe  they  were, 

And  would  have  made  me  fear  them ;  but  my  soul 

Posscss'd  the  germ  of  inborn  fortitude. 

And  stubbornly  I  bore  unkind  rebuke 

And  angry  chastisement.     Yet  was  the  voice 

That  spake  in  tones  of  tenderness  most  sweet 

To  my  young  heart ;  how  have  1  felt  it  leap 

With    transport,    when    my    Uncle    Claude    ap- 

proach'd ! 
For  he  would  take  me  on  his  knee,  and  tell 
Such  wondrous  tales  as  childhood  loves  to  hear. 
Listening  with  eager  eyes  and  open  lips 
Devoutly  in  attention.     Good  old  man  ! 
Oh,  if  I  ever  pour'd  a  prayer  to  Heaven 
Unhallow'd  by  the  grateful  thought  of  him, 
Methinks  the  righteous  winds  would  scatter  it  I 
He  was  a  parent  to  me,  and  his  home 
Was  mine,  when  in  advancing  years  I  found 
No  peace,  no  comfort  in  my  father's  house. 
With  him  I  pass'd  the  pleasant  evening  hours. 
By  day  I  drove  my  father's  flock  afield,^ 
And  this  was  happiness. 

"  Amid  these  wilds 
Often  to  summer  pasture  have  I  driven 
The  flock  ;  and  well  I  know  these  woodland  wilds, 
And  every  bosom'd  vale,  and  valley  stream 
Is  dear  to  memory.     1  have  laid  me  down 
Beside  yon  valley  stream,  that  up  the  ascent 
Scarce  sends  the  sound  of  waters  now,  and  watch'd 
The  beck  roll  glittering  to  the  noon-tide  sun, 
And  listen'd  to  its  ceaseless  murmuring. 
Till  all  was  hush'd  and  tranquil  in  my  soul, 
Fill'd  with  a  strange  and  undefined  delight 
That  pass'd  across  the  mind  like  summer  clouds 
Over  the  vale  at  eve  ;  their  fleeting  hues 
The  traveller  cannot  trace  with  memory's  eye. 
Yet  he  remembers  well  how  fair  they  were. 
How  beautiful. 

"  In  solitude  and  peace 
Here  1  grew  up,  amid  the  loveliest  scenes 
Of  unpolluted  nature.     Sweet  it  was. 
As  the  white  mists  of  morning  roll'd  away, 
To  see  the  upland's  wooded  heights  appear 
Dark  in  the  early  dawn,  and  mark  the  slope 
With  gorse-flowers  glowing,  as  the  sun  illumed 
Their  golden  glory '"  with  his  deepening  light ; 
Pleasant  at  noon  beside  the  vocal  brook 
To  lay  me  down,  and  watch  the  floating  clouds, 
And  shape  to  fancy's  wild  similitudes 
Their  ever-varying  forms  ;  and  oh  how  sweet  1 
To  drive  my  flock  at  evening  to  the  fold. 
And  hasten  to  our  little  hut,  and  hear 
The  voice  of  kindness  bid  me  welcome  home. 

"  Amid  the  village  playmates  of  my  youth 

Was  one  wliom  riper  years  approved  a  friend. 

A  gentle  maid  was  my  poor  Madelon  ; 

I  loved  her  as  a  sister,  and  long  time 

Her  undivided  tenderness  possess'd. 

Until  a  better  and  a  holier  tie 

Gave  her  one  nearer  friend  ;  and  tlicn  my  heart 

Partook  her  happiness,  for  never  lived 

A  happier  pair  than  Arnaud  and  hfs  wife. 

"  Lorraine  was  call'd  to  arms,  and  with  her  youth 
Went  Arnaud  to  the  war.     The  morn  was  fair. 
Bright  shone  the  sun,  the  birds  sung  cheerfully. 
And  all  the  fields  seem'd  joyous  in  the  spring ; 
But  to  Domremi  wretched  was  that  day. 
For  tJiere  was  lamentation,  and  the  voice 
Of  anguish,  and  tlie  deeper  agony 
Tiiat  spake  not.     Never  can  my  heart  forget 
The  feelings  that  shot  through  me,  when  the  horn 
Gave  its  last  call,  and  through  the  castle-gate 
The  banner  moved,  and  from  the  clinging  arms 
Which  hung  on  them,  as  for  a  last  embrace. 
Sons,  brethren,  husbands,  went. 

"  More  frequent  now 
Sought  I  the  converse  of  poor  Madelon, 
For  now  she  needed  friendship's  soothing  voice. 
All  the  long  summer  did  she  live  in  hope 
Of  tidings  from  the  war  ;  and  as  at  eve 
She  with  her  mother  by  the  cottage  door 
Sat  in  the  sunshine,  if  a  traveller 
Appear'd  at  distance  coming  o'er  the  brow, 
Her  eye  was  on  him,  and  it  might  be  seen 
By  the  flush'd  cheek  what  thoughts  were  in  her 

And  by  the  deadly  paleness  which  ensued, 
How  her  heart  died  within  her.     So  the  days 
And  weeks  and  months  pass'd  on  ;  and  when  the 

Fell  in  the  autumn,  a  most  painful  hope 
That  reason  own'd  not,  that  with  expectation 
Did  never  cheer  her  .as  she  rose  at  morn. 
Still  linger'd  in  her  heart,  and  still  at  night 
Made  disappointment  dreadful.     Winter  came. 
But  Arnaud  never  from  the  war  return'd  ; 
He  far  away  had  perish'd ;  and  when  late 
The  tidings  of  his  certain  death  arrived, 
Sore  with  long  anguish  underneath  that  blow 
She  sunk.     Then  would  she  sit  and  think  all  day 
Upon  the  past,  and  talk  of  happiness 
That  never  could  return,  as  though  she  found 
Best  solace  in  the  thoughts  which  minister'd 
To  sorrow  :  and  she  loved  to  see  the  sun 
Go  down,  because  another  day  was  gone. 
And  then  she  might  retire  to  solitude 
And  wakeful  recollections,  or  perchance 
To  sleep  more  wearying  far  than  wakefulness. 
Dreams  of  his  safcty  and  return,  and  starts 
Of  agony  ;  so  neither  night  nor  d.iy 
Could  she  find  rest,  but  pined  and  pined  away. 

"  Death  I  to  the  happy  thou  art  terrible ; 
But  how  the  wretched  love  to  think  of  thee, 
Oh  thou  true  comforter,  the  friend  of  all 
Wlin  have  no  friend  beside  I  "     By  the  sick  bed 
Of  Madelon  I  sat,  wlicn  sure  she  felt 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 

BOOK   I. 

The  hour  of  her  deliverance  drawing  near ; 
I  saw  her  eye  kindle  witli  heavenly  hope, 
1  had  her  latest  look  of  earthly  love, 
I  telt  her  hand's  last  pressure.  —  Son  of  Orleans  ! 
I  would  not  wish  to  live  to  know  that  hour. 
When  1  could  think  upon  a  dear  friend  dead. 
And  weep  not ;  but  they  are  not  bitter  tears,  — 
Not  painful  now  ;  for  Christ  hath  risen,  first  fruits 
Of  them  that  sl^pt ;  and  we  shall  meet  again. 
Meet,  not  again  to  part :  the  grave  hath  lost 
Its  victory. 

"  1  remember,  as  her  bier 
Went  to  the  grave,  a  lark  sprung  up  aloft. 
And  soar'd  amid  the  sunshine,  carolling 
So  full  of  joy,  that  to  the  mourner's  ear 
More  mournfully  than  dirge  or  passing  bell, 
The  joyous  carol  came,  and  made  us  feel 
That  of  the  multitude  of  beings,  none 
But  man  was  wretched. 

"  Then  my  soul  awoke. 
For  it  had  slumber'd  long  in  happiness. 
And  never  feeling  misery,  never  thought 
What  others  suffer.     1,  as  best  I  might. 
Solaced  the  keen  regret  of  Elinor  ; 
And  much  my  cares  avail'd,  and  much  her  son's. 
On  whom,  the  only  comfort  ol'  her  age. 
She  centred  now  her  love.     A  younger  birth, 
Aged  nearly  as  myself  was  Theodore, 
An  ardent  youth,  who  with  the  kindest  care 
Had  sooth'd  his  sister's  sorrow.     We  had  knelt 
By  her  death-bed  together,  and  no  bond 
In  closer  union  knits  two  human  hearts 
Than  fellowship  in  grief. 

"  It  chanced  as  once 
Beside  the  fire  of  Elinor  1  sat, 
The  night  was  comfortless,  the  loud  blast  howl'd. 
And  as  we  drew  around  the  social  hearth. 
We  heard  the  rain  beat  hard.    Driven  by  the  storm 
A  warrior  mark'd  our  distant  taper's  light ; 
We  heapt  the  fire,  and  spread  the  friendly  board. 
'  'T  is  a  rude   night, '    the   stranger   cried  :  '  safe 

Pleasant  it  is  to  hear  the  pelting  rain. 
I  too  could  be  content  to  dwell  in  peace, 
Resting  my  head  upon  the  lap  of  love. 
But  that  my  country  calls.    When  the  winds  roar. 
Remember  sometimes  what  a  soldier  suffers, 
And  think  on  Conrade.' 

"  Theodore  replied, 
'  Success  go  with  thee  !  Something  we  have  known 
Of  war,  and  tasted  its  calamity  ; 
And  I  am  well  content  to  dwell  in  peace. 
Albeit  inglorious,  thanking  the  good  God 
Who  made  me  to  be  happy.' 

"  '  Did  that  God,' 
Cried  Conrade,  '  form  thy  heart  for  happiness, 
When  Desolation  royally  careers 
Over  thy  wretched  country  .'     Did  that  God 
Form  thee  for  Peace  when  Slaughter  is  abroad. 
When  her  brooks  run  with  blood,  and  Rape,  and 

Stalk  through  her  flaming  towns  .'    Live  thou  in 

Young  man !  my  heart  is  human  :  I  must  feel 
For  what  my  brethren  suffer.'     While  he  spake 

Such  mingled  passions  character'd  his  face 

Of  fierce  and  terrible  benevolence. 

That  1  did  tremble  as  I  listen'd  to  him  ; 

And  in  my  heart  tumultuous  thoughts  arose 

Of  high  achievements,  indistinct,  and  wild, 

And  vast,  —  yet  such  they  were  as  made  me  pant 

As  though  by  some  divinity  possess'd. 

"  '  But  is  there  not  some  duty  due  to  those 
We  love  .' '  said  Theodore ;  '  is  tliere  an  employ 
More  righteous  than  to  cheer  declining  age, 
And  thus  with  filial  tenderness  repay 
Parental  care .' ' 

"  '  Hard  is  it,'  Conrade  cried, 
'  Ay,  liard  indeed,  to  part  from  those  we  love ; 
And  I  have  suffer'd  that  severest  pang. 
I  liave  left  an  aged  mother ;  I  have  left 
One  upon  whom  my  heart  has  fasten'd  all 
Its  dearest,  best  affections.     Should  I  live 
Till  France  shall  see  the  blessed  hour  of  peace, 
I  shall  return ;  my  heart  will  be  content. 
My  duties  then  will  have  been  well  discharged, 
And  I  may  then  be  happy.     Tliere  are  those 
Who  deem  such  thoughts  the  fancies  of  a  mind 
Strict  beyond  measure,  and  were  well  content. 
If  I  should  soften  down  my  rigid  nature 
Even  to  inglorious  ease,  to  honor  me. 
But  pure  of  heart  and  higli  in  self-esteem 
1  must  be  honor'd  by  myself:  all  else, 
The  breath  of  Fame,  is  as  the  unsteady  wind 

"  So  saying  from  his  belt  he  took 
The  encumbering  sword.  I  held  it,  listening  to  him, 
And  wistless  what  I  did,  half  from  the  sheath 
Drew  forth  its  glittering  blade.     I  gazed  upon  it. 
And  shuddering,  as  I  touch'd  its  edge,  exclaim  d, 
How  horrible  it  is  with  the  keen  sword 
To  gore  the  finely-fibred  human  frame  ! 
I  could  not  strike  a  lamb. 

"  He  answer'd  me, 
'  Maiden,  thou  sayest  well.     I  could  not  strike 
A  lamb  !  —  But  when  the  merciless  invader 
Spares  not  gray  age,  and  mocks  the  infant's  shriek 
As  it  doth  writhe  upon  his  cursed  lance. 
And  forces  to  his  foul  embrace  the  wife 
Even  where  her  slaughter'd   husband   bleeds   to 

Almighty  God  !  1  should  not  be  a  man 
If  I  did  let  one  weak  and  pitiful  feeling 
Make  mine  arm  impotent  to  cleave  him  down. 
Think  well  ofthis,  young  man  ! ' '^  he  cried,  and  took 
The  hand  of  Theodore  ;  'think  well  ofthis; 
As  you  are  human,  as  you  hope  to  live 
In  peace,  amid  the  dearest  joys  of  home, 
Think  well  of  this  !     You  have  a  tender  mother  ; 
As  you  do  wish  that  she  may  die  in  peace, 
As  you  would  even  to  madness  agonize 
To  hear  this  maiden  call  on  you  in  vain 
For  help,  and  see  her  dragg'd,  and  hear  her  scream 
In  the  blood-reeking  soldier's  lustful  grasp. 
Think  that  there  are  such  horrors  !  '•*  that  even  now, 
Some  city  flames,  and  haply,  as  in  Roan, 
Some  famish'd  babe  on  his  dead  mother's  breast 
Yet  hangs  and  pulls  for  food  !  '^  —  Woe  be  to  those 
By  whom  tlie  evil  comes  I     And  woe  to  him. 

BOOK    IT. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


For  little  loss  his  fjuilt,  —  who  dwells  in  peace, 
When  every  arm  is  needed  for  the  strife  ! ' 

"  When  we  had  all  betaken  us  to  rest, 
Sleepless  I  lay,  and  in  my  mind  revolved 
The  high-soul'd  warrior's  speech.     Then  Madclon 
Rose  in  remembrance ;  over  her  the  grave 
Had  closed  ;  her  sorrows  were  not  register'd 
In  the  rolls  of  fame  ;  but  wlien  the  tears  run  down 
Tlie  widow's  cheek,  shall  not  her  cry  be  heard 
In  Heaven  against  tiie  oppressor?   Will  not  God 
In  sunder  smite  tlic  unmerciful,  and  break 
The  sceptre  of  the  wicked  ?  '^  —  Thoughts  like  these 
Possess'd  my  soul,  till  at  tlie  break  of  day 
I  slept;  nor  did  my  heated  brain  repose 
Even  tlien ;  for  visions,  sent,  as  I  believe. 
From  the  Most  High,  arose.     A  high-towcr'd  town 
Hemm'd  in  and  girt  with  enemies,  I  saw. 
Where  Famine  on  a  heap  of  carc;isses. 
Half  envious  of  the  unutterable  feast, 
Mark'd  the  gorged  raven  clog  his  beak  with  gore. 
I  turn'd  me  then  to  tlie  besieger's  camp, 
And  there  was  revelry  :  a  loud,  lewd  laugh 
Burst  on  mine  ear,  and  I  beheld  the  chiefs 
Sit  at  their  feast,  and  plan  the  work  of  death. 
My  soul  grew  sick  within  me  ;  I  look'd  up. 
Reproaching  Heaven,  —  lo  !  from  the  clouds  an  arm 
As  of  the  avenging  Angel  was  put  forth. 
And  from  his  hand  a  sword,  like  lightning,  fell. 

"  From  that  night  I  could  feel  my  burden'd  soul 
Heaving  beneath  incumbent  Deity. 
I  sate  in  silence,  musing  on  the  days 
To  come,  unheeding  and  unseeing  all 
Around  me,  in  that  dreaminess  of  thought 
When  every  bodily  sense  is  as  it  slept, 
And  the  mind  alone  is  wakeful.     I  have  heard 
Strange  voices  in  the  evening  wind ;  strange  forms 
Dimly  discover'd  Ihrong'd  the  twilight  air. 
The  neighbors  wonder'd  at  the  sudden  change  ; 
They  call'd  me  crazed ;  and  my  dear  Uncle,  too. 
Would  sit  and  gaze  upon  me  wistfully, 
A  heaviness  upon  his  aged  brow, 
And  in  his  eye  such  sorrow,  that  my  heart 
Sometimes  misgave  me.     I  had  told  him  all 
The  mighty  future  laboring  in  my  breast. 
But  that  the  hour,  methought,  not  yet  was  come. 

"  At  length  I  heard  of  Orleans,  by  the  foe 
Wall'd  in  from  human  help  :  thither  all  thoughts. 
All  hopes  were  turn'd  ;  that  bulwark  beaten  down, 
All  were  the  invaders.     Then  my  troubled  soul 
Grew  more  disturb'd,  and  shunning  ever}'  eye, 
I  loved  to  wander  where  the  woodland  shade 
Was  deepest,  tliere  on  mightiest  deeds  to  brood 
Of  shadowy  vastness,  such  as  made  my  heart 
Throb  loud  :  anon  I  paused,  and  in  a  state 
Of  half  expectance,  listen'd  to  the  wind. 

"  Tiirrc  is  a  fountain  in  the  forest  call'd 
The  Fountain  of  the  Fairies  :'"  when  a  child 
With  a  delightful  wonder  I  have  heard 
Tales  of  the  FAfin  tribe  who  on  its  banks 
Hold  midnight  revelry.     An  ancient  oak. 
The  goodliest  of  the  forest,  grows  beside  ; 

Alone  it  stands,  upon  a  green  grass  plat. 
By  the  woods  bounded  like  some  little  isle. 
It  ever  hath  been  deem'd  tiieir  favorite  tree  ; 
Tliey  love  to  lie  and  rock  upon  its  leaves,''' 
And  bask  in  moonshine.   Here  the  Woodman  leads 
His  boy,  and  showing  him  the  green-sward  mark'd 
With  darker  circlets,  says  their  midnight  dance 
Hath  traced  the  rings,  and  bids  him  spare  the  tree. 
Fancy  had  cast  a  spell  upon  the  place 
Which  made  it  holy  ;  and  the  villagers 
Would  say  that  never  evil  thing  aj)proach'd 
Unpunish'd  there.  The  strange  and  fearful  pleasure 
Which  fill'd  me  by  that  solitary  spring, 
Ceased  not  in  riper  years ;  and  now  it  woke 
Deeper  delight,  and  more  mysterious  awe. 

"  A  blessed  spot !     Oh,  how  my  soul  enjoy 'd 
Its  holy  quietness,  with  what  delight 
Escaping  from  mankind  1  hasten'd  there 
To  solitude  and  freedom  !     Thitherward 
On  a  spring  eve  I  had  betaken  me. 
And  there  I  sat,  and  mark'd  the  deep  red  clouds 
Gatlier  before  the  wind  —  the  rising  wind. 
Whose  sudden  gusts,  each  wilder  than  the  last, 
Appear'd  to  rock  my  senses.     Soon  the  night 
Darken'd  around,  and  the  large  rain-drops  fell 
Heavy  ;  anon  tempestuously  the  gale 
Swept  o'er  the  wood.     Methought  the   thunder- 
Fell  with  refreshing  coolness  on  my  head. 
And  the  hoarse  d;ish  of  waters,  and  the  rush 
Of  winds  that  mingled  with  the  forest  roar. 
Made  a  wild  music.     On  a  rock  I  sat ; 
The  glory  of  the  tempest  fill'd  my  soul ; 
And  when  the  thunders  peal'd,  and  the  long  flash 
Hung  durable  in  heaven,  and  on  my  sight 
Spread  the   gray  forest,  memory,  thought,   were 
All  sense  of  self  annihilate,  I  seem'd  [gone,'" 

Diffused  into  the  scene. 

"  At  length  a  light 
Approach'd  the  spring  ;  I  saw  my  Uncle  Claude  ; 
His  gray  locks  dripping  with  the  midnight  storm. 
He  came,  and  caught  me  in  his  arms,  and  cried, 
'  My  God  !  my  child  is  safe  ! ' 

"  I  felt  his  words 
Pierce  in  my  heart ;  my  soul  was  overcharged  ; 
I  fell  upon  his  neck  and  told  him  all ; 
God  was  within  me ;  as  I  felt,  I  spake, 
And  he  believed. 

"  Ay,  Chieftain  !  and  the  world 
Shall  soon  believe  my  mission  ;  for  the  Lord 
Will  raise  up  indignation  and  pour  on't 
His  wrath,  and  they  shall  perish  who  oppress."  " 


And  now  beneath  the  horizon  westering  slow 
Had  sinik  the  orb  of  day  :  o'er  all  the  vale 
A  purple  softness  spread,  save  where  some  tree 
Its  lengthen'd  shadow  stretch'd,or  winding  stream 
Mirror'd  the  light  of  Heaven,  still  traced  distinct 
When  twilight  dimly  shrouded  all  beside. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    II. 

A  grateful  coolness  freshen'd  the  calm  air, 
And  the  hoarse  grasshoppers  their  evening  song 
Sung  shrill  and  ceaseless,-"  as  the  dews  of  night 
Descended.     On  their  way  the  travellers  wend, 
Cheering  the  road  with  converse,  till  at  length 
They  mark  a  cottage  lamp,  whose  steady  light 
Slione  though  the  lattice  ;  thitherward  they  turn. 
Tliere  came  an  old  man  forth  ;  his  thin  gray  locks 
Moved  to  the  breeze,  and  on  his  wither'd  face 
The  characters  of  age  were  written  deep. 
Tliem,  louting  low  with  rustic  courtesy. 
He  welcomed  in  ;  on  the  white-ember'd  hearth 
Heapt  up  fresh  fuel,  then  witli  friendly  care 
Spread  out  his  homely  board,  and  fill'd  the  bowl 
With  the  red  produce  of  the  vine  that  arch'd 
His  evening  scat ;  they  of  the  plain  repast 
Partook,  and  quaff  'd  the  pure  and  pleasant  draught. 

"  Strangers,  your  fare  is  homely,"  said  their  Host, 
"  But  such  it  is  as  we  poor  countrymen 
Earn  with  our  toil :  in  faith  ye  are  welcome  to  it ! 
I  too  have  borne  a  lance  in  younger  days ; 
And  would  that  I  were  young  again  to  meet 
These  haughty  English  in  the  field  of  figlit ; 
Such  as  I  was  when  on  the  fatal  plain 
Of  Agincourt  I  met  them." 

"  Wert  thou  then 
A  sharer  in  that  dreadful  day's  defeat?" 
Exclaim'd  the  Bastard.   "  Didst  thou  know  the  Lord 
Of  Orleans.'" 

"  Know  him  ?  "  cried  the  veteran, 
"  I  saw  him  ere  the  bloody  fight  began 
Riding  from  rank  to  rank,  his  beaver  up, 
The  long  lance  quivering  in  his  mighty  grasp. 
His  eye  was  wratliful  to  an  enemy. 
But  for  his  countrymen  it  had  a  smile 
Would  win  all  hearts.    Looking  at  thee.  Sir  Knight, 
Methinks  I  see  him  now ;  such  was  his  eye. 
Gentle  in  peace,  and  such  his  manly  brow." 

"  No  tongue  but  speaketh  honor  of  that  name  !  " 
Exclaim'd  Dunois.     "  Strangers  and  countrymen 
Alike  revered  the  good  and  gallant  Chief. 
His  vassals  like  a  father  loved  their  Lord ; 
His  gates  stood  open  to  tlie  traveller  ; 
The  pilgrim  when  he  saw  his  towers  rejoiced, 
For  he  had  heard  in  other  lands  the  fame 
Of  Orleans.  — And  he  lives  a  prisoner  still ! 
Losing  all  hope  because  my  arm  so  long 
Hath  fail'd  to  win  his  liberty  ! " 

He  turn'd 
His  head  away,  hiding  the  burning  shame 
Which    flush'd    his   face.     "But    he   shall  live, 

The  mission'd  Maid  replied  ;  "  but  he  shall  live 
To  hear  good  tidings  ;  hear  of  liberty, 
Of  his  own  liberty,  by  his  brother's  arm 
Achieved  in  well-won  battle.     He  shall  live 
Happy;  the  memory  of  his  prison'd  years  ^' 
Shall  heighten  all  his  joys,  and  his  gray  hairs 
Co  to  the  grave  in  peace." 

"  I  would  fain  live 
To  see  that  day,"  replied  their  aged  liost : 
"  How  would  my  heart  leap  to  behold  again 
The  gallant,  generous  chieftain  !  I  fought  by  him. 

When  all  our  hopes  of  victory  were  lost. 

And  down  his  battcr'd  arms  tlie  blood  stream'd  fast 

From  many  a  wound.     Like  wolves  they  hemm'd 

us  in, 
Fierce  in  unhoped  for  conquest :  all  around 
Our  dead  and  dying  countrymen  lay  heap'd ; 
Yet  still  he  strove  ;  —  I  wondcr'd  at  his  valor  ! 
Tiiere  was  not  one  who  on  that  fatal  day 
Fought  bravelier." 

"  Fatal  was  that  day  to  France," 
Exclaim'd  the  Bastard  ;  "  tliere  Alencjon  fell, 
Valiant  in  vain  ;  there  D'Albcrt,  whose  mad  pride 
Brought  the  whole  ruin  on.     There  fell  Brabant, 
Vaudemont,  and  Marie,  and  Bar,  and  Faquenberg, 
Our  noblest  warriors  ;  the  determin'd  foe 
Fought  for  revenge,  not  hoping  victory. 
Desperately   brave ;   ranks  fell   on    ranks  before 

them ; 
The  prisoners  of  that  shameful  day  out-summ'd 
Their  conquerors  !  "  ^ 

"  Yet  believe  not,"  Bertram  cried, 
"  That  cowardice  disgraced  thy  countrymen  ! 
They,  by  their  leader's  arrogance  led  on 
With  heedless  fury,  found  all  numbers  vain. 
All  effort  fruitless  there  ;  and  hadst  thou  seen, 
Skilful  as  brave,  how  Henry's  ready  eye 
Lost  not  a  thicket,  not  a  hillock's  aid  ; 
From  his  hersed  bowmen  how  the  arrows  flew  ^ 
Thick  as  the  snow-flakes  and  with  lightning  force  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  such  soldiers,  such  a 

Could  never  be  subdued. 

"  But  when  the  field 
Was  won,  and  they  who  had  escaped  the  fight 
Had  yielded  up  their  arras,  it  was  foul  work 
To  turn  on  the  defenceless  prisoners 
The  cruel  sword  of  conquest.^''     Girt  around 
I  to  their  mercy  had  surrender'd  me. 
When  lo  !  I  heard  the  dreadful  cry  of  death. 
Not  as  amid  the  fray,  when  man  met  man 
And  in  fair  combat  gave  the  mortal  blow  ; 
Here  the  poor  captives,  weaponless  and  bound, 
Saw  their  stern  victors  draw  again  the  sword, 
And  groan'd  and  strove  in  vain  to  free  their  hands. 
And  bade  them  think  upon  their  plighted  faith, 
And  pray'd  for  mercy  in  the  name  of  God, 
In  vain  :  the  King  had  bade  them  massacre. 
And  in  their  helpless  prisoners'  naked  breasts 
They  drove  the  weapon.     Then  1  look'd  for  death. 
And  at  that  moment  death  was  terrible,  — 
For  the  heat  of  fight  was  over  ;  of  my  home 
I  thouoht,  and  of  my  wife  and  little  ones 
In  bitterness  of  heart.     But  the  brave  man, 
To  whom  the  chance  of  war  had  made  me  thrall, 
Had  pity,  loosed  my  hands,  and  bade  me  fly. 
It  was  the  will  of  Heaven  that  I  should  live 
Childless  and  old  to  think  upon  the  past. 
And  wish  that  I  had  perish'd  !  " 

The  old  man 
Wept  as  he  spake.     "  Ye  may  perhaps  have  heard 
Of  the  hard  siege  that  Roan  so  long  endur'd. 
1  dwelt  there,  strangers ;  I  had  then  a  wife, 
And  I  had  cliildren  tenderly  beloved. 
Who  I  did  hope  should  cheer  me  in  old  age 
And  close  mine  eyes.     The  tale  of  misery 


JOAN    or    ARC, 


M:iyhap  were  t<>dious,  or  I  could  relate 
Much  oflliat  dreadful  time." 

Tlie  Maid  replied, 
Wishing  of  that  devoted  town  to  hear. 
Thus  tlien  tlie  veteran  : 

"  So  by  Heaven  preserved, 
From  the  disastrous  plain  of  Airincourl  ^■' 
1  speeded  homewards,  and  abode  in  peace, 
ilonry,  as  wise  as  brave,  had  back  to  England"'' 
i>i-d  his  victorious  army  ;  well  aware 
That  France  was  mighty,  that  her  warlike  sons, 
impatient  of  a  foreigner's  command. 
Might  rise  impetuous,  and  with  multitudes 
Tread  down  tlie  invaders.     Wisely  he  return'd. 
For  our  proud  barons  in  their  private  broils 
Wasted  tlie  strength  of  France.     I  dwelt  at  Ijome, 
And  with  the  little  I  possess'd  content. 
Lived  happily.     A  pleasant  sight  it  was 
To  see  my  children,  as  at  eve  I  sat 
Beneath  the  vine,  come  clustering  round  my  knee. 
That  tliey  might  hear  again  the  otl-told  talc 
Of  the  dangers  I  had  past :  their  little  eyes 
Would  with  sucli  anxious  eagerness  attend 
The  tale  of  life  preserved,  as  made  me  feel 
Life's  value.     My  poor  children  I  a  hard  fate 
Mad  they  !     But  oft  and  bitterly  I  wish 
That  God  had  to  his  mercy  taken  me 
In  childhood,  for  it  is  a  heavy  lot 
To  linger  out  old  age  in  loneliness  ! 

"  Ah  me  !  when  war  the  masters  of  mankind, 

Woe  to  the  poor  man !  if  he  sow  his  field, 

He  shall  not  reap  the  harvest;  if  he  see 

His  offspring  rise  around,  his  boding  heart 

Aches  at  the  thought  that  they  are  multiplied 

To  the  sword  !    Again  from  Engl  md  the  fierce  foe 

Came  on  our  ravaged  coasts.     In  battle  bold. 

Merciless  in  conquest,  their  victorious  King 

Swept  like  the  desolating  tempest  round. 

Dambleres  submits ;  on  Caen's  subjected  wall 

The  flag  of  England  waved,     lloan  still  remain'd, 

Embattled  Roan,  bulwark  of  Normandy ; 

Nor  unresisted  round  her  massy  walls 

Pltch'd  they  their  camp.   1  need  not  tell.  Sir  Knight, 

How  ofl  and  boldly  on  the  invading  host 

We  burst  with  fierce  assault  impetuous  forth, 

For  many  were  the  warlike  sons  of  Roan.*' 

One  gallant  Citizen  was  famed  o'er  all 

For  daring  hardihood  preeminent, 

Bhnchard.     He,  gathering  round  his  countrymen, 

With  his  own  courage  kindling  every  breast. 

Had  made  them  vow  before  Almighty  God*^ 

Never  to  yield  them  to  the  usurping  foe. 

Before  the  God  of  Hosts  we  made  the  vow ; 

.\nd  we  had  baffled  the  besieging  power, 

Hid  not  tiie  patient  enemy  drawn  round 

His  wide  intrenchments.     From  the  watch-tower's 

In  vain  with  fearful  hearts  along  the  Seine 
We  strain'd  the  eye,  and  every  distant  wave 
Which  in  the  sunbeam  glitter'd,  fondly  thought 
The  white  sail  of  supply.     Alas!  no  more 
The  white  sail  rose  upon  our  aching  sight; 
For  guarded  was  the  Seine,  and  our  stern  foe 
Had  made  aleague  with  Famine.'"  How  my  heart 

Sunk  in  me  when  at  night  1  carried  home 
The  scanty  pittance  of  to-morrow's  meal ! 
You  know  not,  strangers,  what  it  is  to  see 
The  asking  eye  of  hunger  ! 

"  Still  we  strove, 
H\pecting  aid  ;  nor  longer  force  to  force, 
Valor  to  valor,  in  the  fight  opposed. 
But  to  the  exasperate  patience  of  the  foe, 
Desperate  endurance.*^  Though  with  Christian  zeal 
Ursino  would  have  pour'd  the  balm  of  peace 
Into  our  wounds,  Ambition's  ear,  best  pleased 
With  the  war's  clamor  and  the  groan  of  death. 
Was  deaf  to  prayer.     Day  afler  day  pass'd  on ; 
AVe  heard  no  voice  of  comfort.     From  the  walls 
Could  we  behold  their  savage  Irish  Kerns,'^' 
Ruffians  half-clothed,  half-human,  half-baptized,^^ 
Come   with  their   spoil,   mingling   their   hideous 

With  moan  of  weary  flocks,  and  piteous  low 
Of  kino  sore-laden,  in  the  mirthful  camp 
Scattering  abundance ;  while  the  loathliest  food 
We  prized  above  all  price ;  while  in  our  streets 
The  dying  groan  of  hunger,  and  the  cries 
Of  famishing  infants  echoed,  —  and  we  heard, 
With  the  strange  selfishness  of  misery, 
We  heard,  and  heeded  not. 

,"  Tliou  wouldst  have  deem'd 
Roan  must  have  fallen  an  easy  sacrifice. 
Young  warrior  !  hadst  thou  seen  our  meagre  limbs. 
And  pale  and  shrunken  cheeks,  and  hollow  eyes  , 
Yet  still  we  struggled  bravely  !     Blanchard  still 
Spake  of  the  obdurate  temper  of  the  foe. 
Of  Harfleur's  wretched  people  driven  out'^ 
Houseless  and  destitute,  while  that  stern  King 
Knelt  at  the  altar,  and  with  impious  prayer^* 
Gave  God  the  glory,  even  while  the  blood 
That  he  had  shed  was  recking  up  to  Heaven. 
He  bade  us  think  what  mercy  they  had  found 
Who  yielded  on  the  plain  of  Agincourt, 
And  what  the  gallant  sons  of  Caen,  by  him 
In  cold  blood  slaughtered :  3'  then  his  scanty  f^iod 
Sharing  with  the  most  wretched,  he  would  bid  us 
Bear  with  our  miseries  manfully. 

"Thus  press'd. 
Lest  all  should  perish  thus,  our  chiefs  decreed 
Women  and  children,  the  infirm  and  old. 
All  who  were  useless  in  the  work  of  war, 
Should  forth   and  take  their  fortune.     Age,  that 

The  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  distant  years 
Like  a  half-remember'd  dream,  yet  on  my  heart 
Leaves  deep  impress'd  the  horrors  of  that  hour. 
Then  as  our  widow-wives  clung  round  our  necks. 
And  the  deep  sob  of  anguish  interrupted 
The  prayer  of  parting,  even  the  pious  priest 
As  he  implored  his  God  to  strengthen  us. 
And  told  us  we  should  meet  again  in  Heaven, 
He  groan'd  and  curs'd  in  bitterness  of  heart'" 
Thai  merciless  King.    The  wretched  crowd  pass'd 

•  through  the  gates  they 

My  wife  —  my  children  ■ 

Then   tlie   gates  closed— Would  I    were  in  my 

That  I  might  lose  remembrance  ' 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


"  What  is  man 
That  he  can  hear  the  groan  of  wretchedness 
And  ibel  no  fleshly  pang !     Why  did  tlie  All-Good 
Create  tliese  warrior  scourges  of  mankind, 
These  who  delight  in  slaughter?     I  did  think 
Tliere  was  not  on  this  earth  a  heart  so  hard 
Could  hear  a  famish'd  woman  ask  for  food, 
And  feel  no  pity.     As  the  outcast  train 
Drew  near,  relentless  Henry  bade  liis  troops 
Drive  back  the  miserable  multitude.^' 
They  drove  tliem  to  the  walls ;  —  it  was  the  depth 
Of  winter,  —  we  had  no  relief  to  grant. 
The  aged  ones  groan'd  to  our  foe  in  vain, 
The  mother  pleaded  for  her  dying  child. 
And  they  felt  no  remorse  I  " 

The  mission'd  Maid 
Rose  from  her  seat,  —  "  The  old  and  the  infirm, 
The  mother  and  her  babes  !  —  and  yet  no  lightning 
Blasted  this  man !  " 

"  Aye,  Lady,"  Bertram  cried, 
"  And  when  we  sent  the  herald  to  implore 
His  mercy  ^*  on  tlie  helpless,  his  stern  face 
Assum'd  a  sterner  smile  of  callous  scorn, 
And  he  replied  in  mockery.     On  the  wall 
I  stood  and  watch'd  the  miserable  outcasts. 
And  every  moment  thought  that  Henry's  heart, 
Hard  as  it  was,  would  melt.  .  All  night  I  stood,  — 
Their  deep  groans  came  upon  the  midnight  gale ; 
Fainter  they  grew,  for  the  cold  wintry  wind 
Blew  bleak ;  fainter  they  grew,  and  at  the  last 
All  was  still,  save  that  ever  and  anon 
Some  mother  raised  o'er  her  expiring  child 
\  cry  of  frenzying  anguish.^' 

"  From  that  hour 
On  all  the  busy  turmoil  of  the  world 
I  look'd  with  strange  indifference ;  bearing  want 
With  the  sick  patience  of  a  mind  worn  out. 
Nor  when  the  traitor  yielded  up  our  town""* 
Aught  heeded  I  as  through  our  ruin'd  streets. 
Through  putrid  heaps  of  famish'd  carcasses. 
The  pomp  of  triumph  pass'd.     One  pang  alone 
1  felt,  when  by  that  cruel  King's  command 
The  gallant  Blanchard  died  :  ■*'  calmly  he  died, 
And  as  he  bow'd  beneath  the  axe,  thank'd  God 
That  he  had  done  his  duty. 

"  I  survive , 
A  solitary,  friendless,  wretched  one, 
Knowing  no  joy  save  in  the  certain  hope 
That  I  shall  soon  be  gather'd  to  my  sires. 
And  soon  repose,  there  where  the  wicked  cease  *' 
From  troubling,  and  the  weary  arc  at  rest." 

"  And  happy,"  cried  the  delegated  Maid, 
"  And  happy  they  who  in  that  holy  faith 
Bow  meekly  to  the  rod  !     A  little  while 
yiiall  they  endure  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  injustice  of  the  great :  a  little  while 
Though  shelterless  they  feel  the  wintry  wind, 
The  wind  shall  whistle  o'er  their  turf-grown  grave. 
And  all  be  peace  below.     But  woe  to  those, 
Woe  to  the  Mighty  Ones  who  send  abroad 
Their  ministers  of  death,  and  give  to  Fury 
The  flaming  firebrand ;  these  indeed  shall  live 
The  heroes  of  the  wandering  minstrel's  song; 
But  they  have  their  reward ;  the  innocent  blood 

Steams  up  to  Heaven  against  them:  God  shall  hear 
The  widow's  groan." 

"I  saw  him,"  Bertram  cried, 
"  Henry  of  Agincourt,  this  mighty  King, 
Go  to  his  grave.     The  long  procession  pass'd 
Slowly  from  town  to  town,  and  when  I  heard 
The  deep-toned  dirge,  and  saw  the  banners  wave . 
A  pompous  shade ,''^  and  the  tall  torches  cast 
In  the  mid-day  sun  a  dim  and  gloomy  light,'''' 
I  thouglit  what  he  had  been  on  earth  who  now 
Was  gone  to  his  account,  and  blest  my  God 
I  was  not  such  as  he  !  " 

So  spake  the  old  man, 
And  then  his  guests  betook  them  to  repose. 



Fair  dawn'd  the  morning,  and  the  early  sun 
Pour'd  on  the  latticed  cot  a  cheerful  gleam, 
And  up  the  travellers  rose,  and  on  their  way 
Hasten'd,  their  dangerous    way,''^  through  fertile 

Laid  waste  by  war.     They  pass'd  the  Auxerrois ; 
The  autumnal  rains  had  beaten  to  the  earth "« 
The  unreap'd  harvest ;  from  the  village  church 
No  even-song  bell  was  heard ;  the  shepherd's  dog 
Prey'd  on  the  scatter'd  flock,  for  there  was  now 
No  hand  to  feed  him,  and  upon  the  hearth 
Where  he  had  slumber'd  at  his  master's  feet 
Weeds  grew  and  reptiles  crawl'd.     Or  if  they  found 
Sometimes  a  welcome,  those  who  welcomed  them 
Were  old  and  helpless  creatures,  lingering  there 
Where  they  were  born,  and  where  they  wish'd  to 

The  place  being  all  that  they  had  left  to  love. 
They  pass'd  the  Yonne,  they  pass'd  the  rapid  Loire, 
Still  urging  on  their  way  with  cautious  speed. 
Shunning  Auxerre,  and  Bar's  embattled  wall, 
And  Romorantin's  towers. 

So  journeying  on, 
Fast  by  a  spring,  which  welling  at  his  feet 
With  many  a  winding  crept  along  the  mead, 
A  Knight  they  saw,  who  there  at  his  repast 
Let  tlie  west  wind  play  round  his  ungirt  brow. 
Approaching  near,  the  Bastard  recognized 
That  faithful  friend  of  Orleans,  the  brave  chief 
Du  Chastel ;  and  their  mutual  greeting  pass'd, 
They  on  the  streamlet's  mossy  bank  reclined 
Beside  him,  and  his  frugal  fare  partook, 
And  drank  the  running  waters. 

"  Art  thou  bound 
For    the    Court,    Dunois.'"    exclaim'd    the    aged 

Knight ; 
"  I  thought  thou  hadst  been  far  away,  shut  up 
In  Orleans,  where  her  valiant  sons  the  siege 
Right  loyally  endure  !  " 

"  I  left  the  town," 
Dunois  replied,  "  thinking  that  my  prompt  speed 
Might  seize  tlie  enemy's  stores,  and  with  fresh  force 
Reenter.     FastoWe's  better  fate  prevail'd,"' 
And  from  the  field  of  shame  my  maddening  horse 
Bore  me,  an  arrow  having  pierced  his  flank. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


\\\nn  out  and  tliiiit  with  that  day's  dangerous  toil, 

My  deep  wounds  bleeding,  vainly  with  weak  hand 

I  check'd  the  powerless  rein.     Nor  aught  avail'd 

When  lieal'd  at  length,  defeated  and  alone 

Again  to  enter  Orleans.     In  Lorraine 

I  sought  to  raise  new  powers,  and  now  returned 

With  strangest  and  most  unexpected  aid. 

Sent  by  high  Heaven,  I  seek  the  Court,  and  thence 

']"()  that  beleaguer'd  town  shall  lead  such  force, 

'I'hat  the  proud  English  in  tlieir  fields  of  blood 

Shall  perish." 

"I  too,"  Tanncguy  rcply'd, 
In  the  field  of  battle  once  again  perchance 
May  serve  my  royal  Master;  in  his  cause 
My  youth  adventurd  much,  nor  can  my  age 
Find  better  close  tlian  in  the  clang  of  arms 
To  die  for  him  whom  1  have  lived  to  serve  .■'^ 
Thou  art  for  the  Court.  Son  of  the  Chief  I  loved ! 
Be  wise  by  my  experience.     He  who  seeks 
Court-favor,  ventures  like  a  boy  who  leans 
Over  the  brink  of  some  high  precipice 
To  reach  the  o'erhanging  fruit.''*    Thou  secst  me 

A  banish'd  man,  Dunois  !  '"^  so  to  appease 
Richemont,  who,  jealous  of  the  royal  ear, 
With  midnight  murder  leagues,  and  down  the  Loire 
Sends  the  black  carcass  of  his  strangled  foe.^' 
Now  confident  of  strength,  at  tiie  Kings  feet 
He  stabs  the  King's  best  friends,  and  then  demands, 
As  with  a  conqueror's  imperious  tone, 
The  post  of  honor.     Son  of  that  good  Duke 
Whose  death  my  arm  avenged,^'  may  all  thy  days 
Be  happy ;  serve  thy  country  in  the  field. 
But  in  the  hour  of  peace  amid  thy  friends 
Dwell  thou  without  ambition.'' 

So  he  spake. 
But  when  the  Bastard  told  his  wondrous  tale. 
How  interposing  Heaven  had  its  high  aid 
Vouchsafed  to  France,  tlie  old  man's  eyes  flash'd 

And  rising  from  the  bank,  liis  ready  steed 
That  grazed  beside  he  mounted.  "Farewell, friend. 
And  thou,  the  Delegate  of  Heaven  I  "  lie  cried. 
"  I  go  to  do  my  part,  and  we  shall  meet 
At  Orleans."     Saying  thus,  he  spurr'daway. 
They  journey  on  their  way  till  Chinon's  towers 
Rose  on  the  distant  view ;  the  royal  scat 
Of  Charles,  while  Paris  with  her  servile  sons, 
A  headstrong,  mutable,  ferocious  race, 
Bow'd  to  the  invader's  yoke;  City  even  then 
Above  all  Cities  noted  for  dire  deeds ! 
Yet  doom'd  to  be  the  scene  of  blacker  guilt, 
Opprobry  more  enduring,  crimes  that  call'd 
For  heavier  vengeance,  than  in  tliose  dark  days 
When  the  Burgundian  faction  fill'd  thy  streets 
With  carnage.*^     Twice  hast  thou  since  then  been 

A  horror  and  a  warning  to  all  lands ; 
When  kingly  power  conspired  with  papal  crail 
To  plot  and  perpetrate  that  massacre, 
Wliich  neither  change  of  kalendar,  nor  lapse 
Of  time,  shall  hide  from  memory,  or  efface; 
And  when  in  more  enlighten'd  days,  —  so  deem'd, 
So  vaunted,  —  the  astonisli'd  nations  saw 
A  people,  to  their  own  devices  left, 

Tiierifore  as  by  judicial  frenzy  stricken, 
Lawless  and  godless,  fill  the  whole  wide  realm 
With  terror,  and  with  wickedness  and  woe, — 
A  more  astounding  judgment  than  when  Heaven 
Shower'd  on  the  cities  of  the  accursed  plain 
Its  fire  and  sulphur  down. 

In  Paris  now 
The  Invader  triumph'd.     On  an  infant's  head 
Had  Bedford  placed  the  crown  of  Charlemagne, 
And  factious  nobles  bow'd  the  subject  knee. 
And  own'd  an  English  infant  for  their  King, 
False  to  their  own  liege  Lord. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven," 
Then  said  the  Son  of  Orleans  to  the  Maid, 
"  Lo  tiiese  the  walls  of  Chinon,  this  the  abode 
Of  Charles  our  monarch.     Here  in  revelry 
He  of  his  armies  vanquish'd,  his  fair  towns 
Subdued,  hears  careless  and  prolongs  the  dance. 
And  little  marvel  I  tliat  to  the  cares 
Of  empire  still  ho  turns  the  unwilling  ear. 
For  loss  on  loss,  defeat  upon  defeat. 
His  strong  holds  taken,  and  his  bravest  Chiefs 
Or  slain  or  captured,  and  the  hopes  of  youth 
All  blasted,  have  subdued  the  royal  mind 
Undisciplined  in  Fortitude's  stern  school. 
So  may  thy  voice  arouse  his  sleeping  virtue  !  " 

The  mission'd  Maid  replied,  "  Do  thou,  Dunois, 
Announce  my  mission  to  the  royal  ear. 
1  on  the  river's  winding  bank  the  while 
Will  roain,  collecting  for  the  interview 
My   thoughts,  though   firm,  yet   troubled.     Who 

Achievements  of  great  import  will  perforce 
Feel  the  heart  heave ;  and  in  my  breast  I  own 
Such  perturbation." 

On  the  banks  of  Vienne 
Devious  the  Damsel  turn'd,  while  through  the  gate 
The  Son  of  Orleans  press'd  with  hasty  step 
To  seek  the  King.     Him  from  the  public  view 
He  found  secluded  with  his  blameless  Queen, 
And  his  partaker  of  the  unlawful  bed, 
The  lofty-minded  Agnes. 

"Son  of  Orleans!  " 
So  as  he  cnter'd  cried  the  haughty  fair, 
"Thou  art  well  come  to  witness  the  disgrace, 
The  weak,  unmanly,  base  despondency 
Of  this  thy  Sovereign  Liege.     He  will  retreat 
To  distant  Dauphiny  and  fly  the  war ! 
Go  then,  unworthy  of  th}-  rank  !  retreat 
To  distant  Dauphiny ,^-'  and  fly  the  war, 
Recreant  from  battle  !    I  will  not  partake 
A  fugitive's  fate;  when  thou  hast  lost  thy  crown 
Thou  losest  Agnes.  —  Do'st  not  blush,  Dunois  ! 
To  bleed  in  combat  for  a  Prince  like  this, 
Fit  only,  like  the  Merovingian  race 
On  a  May  morning  deck'd  with  flowers,**  to  mount 
His  gay-bedizen'd  car,  and  ride  abroad 
And  make  the  multitude  a  holiday. 
Go,  Charles !  and  hide  thee  in  a  woman's  garb. 
And  these  long  locks  will  not  disgrace  thee  then  !  "'*' 

"  Nay,  Agnes!  "  Charles  replied,  "reproach  me 
1  have  enough  of  sorrow.     Look  around, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Soc  this  fair  country  ravaged  by  the  foe, 

My  strong  holds  taken,  and  my  bravest  friends 

Fallen  in  the  field,  or  captives  far  away. 

Dead  is  the  Douglas ;  cold  thy  gallant  heart. 

Illustrious  Buchau  !  ye  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Not  mindless  of  your  old  ally  distress'd, 

Came  to  his  succor ;  in  this  cause  ye  fouglit ; 

For  him  ye  perish'd.     Rash,  impetuous  Narbonne  ! 

Thy  mangled  corse  waves  to  the  winds  of  Heaven." 

Cold,  Graville,  is  thy  sinewy  arm  in  death ; 

Fallen  is  Ventadaur ;  silent  in  the  grave 

Rambouillet  sleeps.     Brctagnn's  unfaithful  chief 

Leagues  with  my  foes  ;  and  Richemont,^**  or  in  arms 

Defies  my  weak  control,  or  from  my  side, 

A  friend  more  dreaded  than  the  enemy, 

Scares  my  best  servants  with  the  assassin's  sword. 

Soon  must  beleaguer'd  Orleans  fall.  —  But  now 

A  truce  to  these  sad  thoughts  !     We  arc  not  yet 

So  utterly  despoil'd  but  we  can  spread 

The  friendly  board,  and  giving  thee,  Dunois, 

Such  welcome  as  befits  thy  father's  son. 

Win  from  our  public  cares  a  day  for  joy." 

Dunois  replied,  "  So  may  thy  future  years 
Pass  from  misfortune  free,  as  all  these  ills 
Shall  vanish  like  a  vision  of  the  night ! 
I  como  to  thee  the  joyful  messenger 
Of  aid  from  Heaven  ;  for  Heaven  hath  delegated 
A  humble  Maiden  to  deliver  France. 
That  holy  Maiden  asks  an  audience  now  ; 
And  when  she  promises  miraculous  thino-s, 
I  feel  it  is  not  possible  to  hear 
And  disbelieve." 

Astonish'd  by  his  speech 
Stood  Charles.     "  At  one  of  meaner  estimation 
I  should  have  smiled,  Dunois,"  the  King  replied  ; 
"  But  tliy  known  worth,  and  the  tried  loyalty 
Of  thy  father's  house,  compel  me  even  to  this 
To  lend  a  serious  ear.     A  woman  sent 
To  rescue  us,  when  all  our  strength  hath  fail'd  ! 
A  humble  Maiden  to  deliver  Franco  ! 
One  whom  it  Vi'ere  not  possible  to  hoar, 
And  disbelieve  !  —  Dunois,  ill  now  beseems 
Aught  wild  and  hazardous.     And  yet  our  state 
Being  what  it  is,  by  miracle  alone 
Deliverance  can  be  hoped  for.     Is  my  person 
Known  to  this  woman  .'  " 

"  That  it  cannot  be. 
Unless  it  be  by  miracle  made  known," 
Dunois  replied  ;  "  for  she  hath  never  left 
Her  native  hamlet  in  Lorraine  till  now." 

"  Here  then,"  rejoin'd  the  King,  "  we  have  a  test 
Easy,  and  safe  withal.     Abide  thou  here  ; 
And  hither  by  a  speedy  messenger 
Summon  the  Prophetess.     Upon  the  throne 
Let  some  one  take  his  scat  and  personate 
My  presence,  while  I  mingle  in  the  train. 
If  she  indeed  be  by  the  Spirit  moved. 
That  Spirit,  certes,  will  direct  her  eyes 
To  the  true  Prince  whom  she  is  sent  to  serve  : 
But  if  she  prove,  as  likeliest  we  must  deem. 
One  by  her  own  imaginations  crazed. 
Thus  failing  and  convinced,  she  may  return 
Unblamed  to  her  obscurity,  and  we 

Be  spared  the  shamo  of  farther  loss  incurr'd 

By  credulous  fa'itli.  Well  might  the  English  scofF,^' 

If  on  a  frantic  woman  we  should  rest 

Our  last  reliance."     Thus  the  King  resolved. 

And  with  a  faith  half-faltering  at  the  proof, 

Dunois  despatch'd  a  messenger,  to  seek 

Beside  the  banks  of  Vienne,  the  mission'd  Maid. 

Soon  is  the  court  convened  :  the  jewell'd  crown 
Shines  on  a  courtier's  head.     Amid  the  train 
The  Monarch  undistinguish'd  takes  his  place, 
E.xpectant  of  the  event.     The  Virgin  comes, 
And  as  the  Bastard  led  her  to  the  throne. 
Quick  glancing  o'er  the  mimic  Majesty, 
With  gesture  and  with  look  like  one  inspired, 
She   fix'd  her  eye  on  Charles  :  *'•'   "  Thou  art  the 

Then  in  a  tone  that  thrill'd  all  hearts,  pursued  ; 
"  I  come  the  appointed  Minister  of  Heaven, 
To  wield  a  sword  bel'ore  whose  fated  edge, 
Far,  far  from  Orleans  shall  the  English  wolves 
Speed  their  disastrous  flight.  Monarch  of  France  ! 
Send  thou  the  tidings  over  all  the  realm. 
Great  tidings  of  deliverance  and  of  joy  ; 
The  Maid  is  come,  the  mission'd  Maid,  whose  hand 
Shall  in  the  consecrated  walls  of  Rheims 
Crown  thee,  anointed  King."^' 

In  wonder  mute 
The  courtiers  heard.  Astonish'd  Charles  exclaim'd, 
"  This  is  indeed  the  agency  of  Heaven  ! 
Hard,  Maiden,  were  I  of  belief,"  he  said, 
"  Did  1  not  now,  with  full  and  confirm'd  faith. 
Receive  thee  as  a  Prophetess  raised  up 
For  our  deliverance.     Therefore,  not  in  doubt 
Of  Providence  or  thee  do  I  delay 
At  once  to  marshal  our  brave  countrymen 
Beneath  thy  banner  ;  but  to  satisfy 
Those  who  at  distance  from  this  most  clear  proof 
Might  hear  and  disbelieve,  or  yield  at  best 
A  cold  assent.     Those  fully  to  confirm. 
And  more  to  make  thy  calling  manifest, 
Forthwith  with  all  due  speed  I  will  convene 
The  Doctors  of  Theology ,^^  wise  men. 
And  learned  in  the  mysteries  of  Heaven. 
By  them  thy  mission  studied  and  approved. 
As  needs  it  must,  their  sanction  to  all  nfinds 
Will  bring  conviction,  and  the  sure  belief 
Lead  on  thy  favor'd  troops  to  mightiest  deeds. 
Surpassing  human  possibility." 

Well  pleas'd  the  Maiden  heard.     Her  the  King 
From  the  disbanding  throng,  meantime  to  dwell 
With  Mary.     Watchful  for  her  Lord's  return 
She  sat  with  Agnes  ;  Agnes  proud  of  heart, 
Majestically  fair,  whose  large  full  eye 
Or  flashing  anger,  or  with  scornful  scowl 
Too  oft  deform'd  her  beauty.     Yet  with  her 
The  lawless  idol  of  the  Monarch's  heart. 
The  Queen,  obedient  to  her  husband's  will, 
Dwelt  meekly  in  accord.     With  them  the  Maid 
Was  left  to  sojourn  ;  by  the  gentle  Queen 
With  cordial  affability  received  ; 
By  Agnes  courteously,  whose  outward  show 
Of  graciousness  concealed  an  inward  awe, 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


For  while  she  hoped  and  trusted  through  her  means 
Charh's  should  be  reiislablishd  in  his  reahu, 
She  felt  rebuked  before  her. 

Through  the  land 
Meantime  the  King's  convoking  voice  went  forth, 
And  from  their  palaces  and  monasteries 
The  theologians  came,  men  who  had  grown 
In  midnight  studies  gray  ;  Prelates,  and  Priests, 
And    Doctors:    teachers    grave,  and   with    great 

Serai)hic,  Subtile,  or  Irrefragable, 
By  their  admiring  scholars  dignified. 

They  met  convened  at  Chinon,  to  the  place 
Of  judgment,  in  St.  Katharine's  tane  ;issignd. 
The  lioor  with  many  a  monumental  stone 
Was  spread,  and  brass-ensculptured  effigies 
Of  holy  abbots  lionor'd  in  their  day. 
Now  to  the  grave  gone  down.   The  branching  arms 
Of  many  a  ponderous  pillar  met  aloft, 
Wreath'd  on  the  roof  emboss'd.     Through  storied 

Of  high  arch'd  windows  came  the  tinctured  light; 
Pure  water  in  a  font  beneath  reflects 
The  many-color'd  rays  ;  around  tliat  font 
The  fathers  stand,  and  there  with  rites  ordain'd 
And  signs  symbolic  strew  the  hallowing  salt, 
Wherewith  the  limpid  water,  consecrate, 
So  taught  the  Church,  became  a  spell  approved 
Against  the  fiends  of  Satan's  fallen  crew' ; 
A  licit  spell  of  mightier  potency 
Than  e'er  the  hell-hags  taught  in  Thessaly  ; 
Or  they  who  sitting  on  the  rifled  grave. 
By  the  blue  tomb-fire's  lurid  light  dim  seen. 
Share  with  the  Gouls  their  ban(iuet. 

This  perform'd, 
The  Maid  is  summon'd.     Round  the  sacred  font, 
Mark'd  with  the  mystic  tonsure  and  enrobed 
In  sacred  vests,  a  venerable  train. 
They  stand.     The  delegated  Maid  obeys 
Their  summons.     As  she  came,  a  blush  suffused 
Her  pallid  cheek,  such  as  might  well  beseem 
One  mindful  still  of  maiden  modesty, 
Though  to  her  mission  true.     Before  the  train 
In  reverent  silence  waiting  their  sage  will, 
With  half-averted  eye  she  stood  composed. 
So  have  I  seen  a  single  snow'-drop  rise 
Amid  the  russet  leaves  that  hide  tlie  earth 
In  early  spring,  so  seen  it  gently  bend 
In  modest  loveliness  alone  amid 
The  waste  of  winter. 

By  the  IMaidcn's  side 
The  Son  of  Orleans  stood,  prepared  to  vouch 
That  when  on  Charles  the  Maiden's  eye  had  fix'd, 
As  led  by  pow-er  miraculous,  no  fraud, 
Nr)r  juggling  artifice  of  secret  sign 
Dissembled  inspiration.     As  he  stood 
Steadily  viewing  the  mysterious  rites, 
Thus  to  the  attentive  Maid  t)ie  President 
Severely  spake. 

"  If  any  fiend  of  Hell 
Liirk  in  thy  bosom,  so  to  prompt  the  vaunt 
Of  inspiration,  and  to  mock  the  power 
Of  God  and  holy  Church,  thus  by  the  virtue 
Of  water  hallowed  in  the  name  of  God 

Adjure  I  that  foul  spirit  to  depart 
From  his  deluded  prey."' 

Slowly  he  spake, 
And  sprinkled  water  on  the  virgin's  face. 
Indignant  at  the  unworthy  charge,  the  Maid 
Felt  her  cheek  flush  ;  but  soon,  the  transient  glow 
Fading,  she  answcr'd  meek. 

"  Most  holy  Sires, 
Ye  reverend  Fathers  of  the  Christian  church, 
Most  catholic  !  I  stand  before  you  here 
A  poor  weak  woman ;  of  the  grace  vouchsafed. 
How  far  unworthy,  conscious  ;  yet  though  mean, 
Innocent  of  fraud,  and  call'd  by  Heaven  to  be 
Its  minister  of  aid.     Strange  voices  heard, 
The  dark  and  shadowing  visions  of  the  night. 
And  feelings  which  I  may  not  dare  to  doubt. 
These  portents  make  me  certain  of  the  God 
Within  me;  He  who  to  these  eyes  revcal'd 
My  royal  Master,  mingled  W'ith  the  crowd 
And  never  seen  till  then.     Such  evidence 
Given  to  my  mission  thus,  and  thus  confirm'd 
By  public  attestation,  more  to  say, 
Methinks,  would  little  boot,  —  and  less  become 
A  silly  Maid." 

"Thou  speakest,"  said  the  Priest, 
"  Of  dark  and  shadowing  visions  of  the  night. 
Canst  thou  remember.  Maid,  what  vision  first 
Seem'd  more  than  fancy's  shaping .-'    From  such 

Minutely  told  with  accurate  circumstance. 
Some  judgment  might  be  form'd." 

The  Maid  replied 
"Amid  the  mountain  valleys  I  had  driven 
My  father's  flock.     The  eve  was  drawing  on, 
When  by  a  sudden  storm  surprised,  I  sought 
A  chapel's  neighboring  shelter;  ruin'd  now. 
But  I  remember  when  its  vesper  bell 
W^as  heard  among  the  hills,  a  pleasant  sound. 
That  made  me  pause  upon  my  homeward  road, 
Awakenino'  in  me  comfortable  thouijhts 
Of  holiness.     The  unsparing  soldiery 
Had  sack'd  the  hamlet  near,  and  none  was  left 
Duly  at  sacred  seasons  to  attend 
St.  Agnes'  chapel.^''    In  the  desolate  pile 
I  drove  my  flock,  with  no  irreverent  thoughts. 
Nor  mindless  that  the  place  on  which  I  trod 
Was  holy  ground.     It  was  a  fearful  night  I 
Devoutly  to  the  virgin  Saint  I  pray'd. 
Then  heap'd  the  wither'd  leaves  which  autumn 

Had  drifted  in,  and  laid  me  down  upon  them, 
And  sure  I  think  I  slept.     But  so  it  was 
That,  in  the  dead  of  night.  Saint  Agnes  stood 
Before  mine  eyes,  such  and  so  beautiful 
.\s  when,  amid  the  house  of  wickedness, 
The  Power  whom  with  such  fervent  love  she  served 
Veil'd  her  with  glory."     And  I  saw  her  point 
To  the  moss-grown  altar,  and  the  crucifix 
Half  hid  by  weeds  and  grass  ;  —  and  then  I  thought 
I  could  have  wither'd  armies  with  a  look. 
For  from  the  present  Saint  such  divine  power 
I  felt  infused  —  'Twas  but  a  dream  perhaps. 
And  yet  methought  that  when  a  louder  peal 
Burst  o'er  the  roof,  and  all  was  left  again 
Utterly  dark,  the  bodily  sense  was  clear 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


And  accurate  in  every  circumstance 
Of  time  and  place." 

Attentive  to  her  words 
Thus  the  Priest  answer'd  : 

"  Brethren,  ye  have  heard 
The  woman's  tale.     Behoves  us  now  to  ask 
Whether  of  holy  Church  a  duteous  child 
Before  our  court  appears,  so  not  unlike 
Heaven  might  vouchsafe  its  gracious  miracle; 
Or  misbelieving  heretic,  whose  thoughts. 
Erring  and  vain,  easily  might  stray  beyond 
All  reason,  and  conceit  strange  dreams  and  signs 
Impossible.     Say,  woman,  from  thy  youth 
Hast  thou,  as  rightly  mother  Church  demands, 
Confess'd  at  stated  times  thy  secret  sins, 
And,  from  the  priestly  power  conferr'dby  Heaven, 
Sought  absolution  ? " 

"Father,"  she  replied, 
"  The  forms  of  worship  in  mine  earlier  years 
Waked  my  young  mind  to  artificial  awe, 
And  made  me  fear  my  God.    Warm  with  the  glow 
Of  health  and  exercise,  whene'er  I  pass'd 
The  threshold  of  the  house  of  prayer,  I  felt 
A  cold  damp  chill  me  ;  1  beheld  the  tapers 
That  with  a  pale  and  feeble  glimmering 
Dimm'd  the  noon-light;  1  heard  the  solemn  mass. 
And  with  strange  feelings  and  mysterious  dread 
Telling  my  beads,  gave  to  the  mystic  prayers 
Devoutcst  meaning.     Often  when  I  saw 
The  pictured  flames  writhe  round  a  penanced  soul, 
I  knelt  in  fear  before  the  Crucifix, 
And  wept  and  pray'd,  and  trembled,  and  adored 
A  God  of  Terrors.     But  in  riper  years. 
When  as  my  soul  grew  strong  in  solitude, 
I  saw  the  eternal  energy  pervade 
The  boundless  range  of  nature,  with  the  sun 
Pour  life  and  radiance  from  his  flamy  path. 
And  on  the  lowliest  floweret  of  the  field 
The  kindly  dew-drops  shed.     And  then  I  felt 
That  He  who  form'd  this  goodly  frame  of  things 
Must  needs  be  good,  and  with  a  Father's  name 
I  call'd  on  Him,  and  from  my  burden'd  heart 
Pour'd  out  the  yearnings  of  unmingled  love. 
Methinks  it  is  not  strange  then,  that  I  fled 
The  house  of  prayer,  and  made  the  lonely  grove 
My  temple,  at  the  foot  of  some  old  oak 
Watching  the  little  tribes  that  had  their  world 
Within  its  mossy  bark  ;  or  laid  me  down 
Beside  the  rivulet  whose  murmuring 
Was  silence  to  my  soul,^*  and  mark'd  the  swarm 
Whose  light-edged  shadows  on  the  bedded  sand 
Mirror'd  their  mazy  sports,  —  the  insect  hum, 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  the  song  of  birds 
Making  a  holy  music  to  mine  ear  : 
Oh  !  was  it  strange,  if  for  such  scenes  as  these, 
Such  deep  devoutness,  such  intense  delight 
Of  quiet  adoration,  I  forsook 
The  house  of  worship  .''  strange  that  when  I  felt 
How  God  had  made  my  spirit  quick  to  feel 
And  love  whate'er  was  beautiful  and  good, 
And  from  aught  evil  and  deform'd  to  slirink 
Even  as  with  instmct ;  —  father  !  was  it  strange 
That  in  my  heart  1  had  no  thought  of  sin, 
And  did  not  need  forgiveness  .'  " 

As  she  spake 

The  Doctors  stood  astonish'd,  and  some  while 
Tliey  listen'd  still  in  wonder.     But  at  length 
A  Monk  replied, 

"  Woman,  thou  sccm'st  to  scorn 
The  ordinances  of  our  holy  Church  ; 
And,  if  I  rightly  understand  thy  words. 
Nature,  thou  say'st,  taught  thee  in  solitude 
Thy  feehngs  of  religion,  and  that  now 
Masses  and  absolution  and  the  use 
Of  the  holy  wafer,  are  to  thee  unknown. 
But  how  could  Nature  teach  thee  true  religion. 
Deprived  of  these  ?  Nature  doth  lead  to  sin, 
But  "tis  the  Priest  alone  can  teach  remorse. 
Can  bid  St.  Peter  ope  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
And  from  the  penal  fires  of  purgatory 
Set  the  soul  free.     Could  Nature  teach  thee  this  .■" 
Or  tell  thee  that  St.  Peter  holds  the  keys. 
And  that  his  successor's  unbounded  power 
Extends  o'er  either  world .'     Although  thy  life 
Of  sin  were  free,  if  of  this  holy  truth 
Ignorant,  thy  soul  in  liquid  flames  must  rue 
Its  error." 

Thus  he  spake  ;  applauding  looks 
Went  round.     Nor  dubious  to  reply  the  Maid 
Was  silent. 

"  Fathers  of  the  holy  Church, 
If  on  these  points  abstruse  a  simple  maid 
Like  me  should  err,  impute  not  you  the  crime 
To  self-will'd  reason,  vaunting  its  own  strength 
Above  eternal  wisdom.     True  it  is 
That  for  long  time  I  have  not  heard  the  sound 
Of  mass  high-chanted,  nor  with  trembling  lips 
Partook  the  holy  wafer  :  yet  the  birds 
Who  to  the  matin  ray  prelusive  pour'd 
Their  joyous  song,  methought  did  warble  forth 
Sweeter  thanksgiving  to  Religion's  ear 
In  their  wild  melody  of  happiness. 
Than  ever  rung  along  the  high-arch'd  roofs 
Of  man  :  —  yet  never  from  the  bending  vine 
Pluck'd  I  its  ripen'd  clusters  thanklessly. 
Or  of  that  God  unmindful,  who  bestow'd 
The  bloodless  banquet.     Ye  have  told  me,  Sirs, 
That  Nature  only  teaches  man  to  sin  ! 
If  it  be  sin  to  seek  the   wounded  lamb, 
To  bind  its  wounds,  and  bathe  them  with  my  tears, 
This  is  what  Nature  taught !    No,  Fathers,  no  ! 
It  is  not  Nature  that  doth  lead  to  sin  : 
Nature  is  all  benevolence,  all  love. 
All  beauty  !     In  the  greenwood's  quiet  shade 
There  is  no  vice  that  to  the  indignant  cheek 
Bids  the  red  current  rush  ;  no  misery  there ; 
No  wretched  mother,  who  with  pallid  face 
And  famine-fallen  hangs  o'er  her  hungry  babes, 
With  such  a  look,  so  wan,  so  woe-begone, 
As  shall  one  day,  with  damning  eloquence. 
Against  the  oppressor  plead  !  —  Nature  teach  sin  ! 
Oh  blasphemy  against  the  Holy  One, 
Who  made  us  in  tbe  image  of  Himself, 
Who  made  us  all  for  happiness  and  love, 
Infinite  happiness,  infinite  love. 
Partakers  of  his  own  eternity." 

Solemn  and  slow  the  reverend  Priest  replied, 
"  Much,  woman,  do  I  doubt  that  all-wise  Heaven 
Would  thus  vouchsafe  its  gracious  miracles 

BUUK    IV. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Oil  one  foreilooiu'd  to  inisory  ;  for  so  dooiii'd 
Is  iJiat  deluded  one,  wlio,  of  the  mass 
Unheeding,  and  the  Church's  saving  power, 
Deems  Nature  sinless.     Therefore,  mark  me  well ! 
Uretiiren,  1  would  propose  this  woman  try 
The  iioly  ordeal.     Let  her,  bound  and  search'd, 
Lest  haply  in  her  clothes  should  be  conceal'd 
Some  holy  relic  so  profaned,  be  cast 
In  some  deep  pond  ;  there  if  she  float,  no  doubt 
The  fiend  upholds;  but  if  at  once  she  sink, 
It  is  a  sign  that  Providence  displays 
1  ler  free  from  witchcrafl.    This  done,  let  her  walk 
Blindfold  and  bare  o'er  ploughshares  heated  red. 
And  o'er  these  past,  her  naked  arm  immerse 
In  scalding  water.     If  from  these  she  come 
Unhurt,  to  holy  father  of  the  church, 
Most  blessed  Pope,  we  then  refer  the  cause 
For  judgment :  and  this  Chief,  the  Son  of  Orleans, 
Who  comes  to  vouch  the  royal  person  known 
By  her  miraculous  power,  shall  pass  witli  her 
The  sacred  trial." 

"  Grace  of  God  !  "  exclaim'd 
The  astonish'd  Bastard  ;  "  plunge  me  in  the  pool, 
Oer  red-hot  ploughshares  make  me  skip  to  please 
Your  dotard  fancies  !     Fathers  of  the  church, 
Where  is  your  gravity .'  what ;  elildr-like 
Would  ye  this  fairer  than  Susannah  eye  ? 
Ye  call  for  ordeals ;  and  I  too  demand 
Tjie  noblest  ordeal,  on  the  English  host 
By  victory  to  approve  her  mission  sent 
From  favoring  Heaven.     To  the  Pope  refer 
For  judgment  I  Know  ye  not  that  France  even  now 
Stands  tottering  on  destruction  I  " 

Starting  then 
With  a  wild  look,  the  mission'd  Maid  e.\claim'd, 
•'  The  sword  of  God  is  here  !  the  grave  shall  speak 
To  manifest  me  !  " 

Even  as  she  spake, 
A  pale  blue  flame  rose  from  the  trophied  tomb 
Beside  her  ;  and  within  that  house  of  death 
A  sound  of  arms  was  heard,  as  if  below 
A  warrior,  buried  in  his  armor,  stirr'd. 

"  Hear  ye  !  "  the  Damsel  cried  ;  "  these  are  the 
Which  shall  flash  terror  o'er  the  hostile  host. 
These,  in  the  presence  of  our  Lord  the  King, 
And  of  the  assembled  people,  I  will  take 
Here  from  the  sepulchre,  where  many  an  age, 
They,  incorruptible,  have  lain  conceal'd, 
For  me  reserved,  the  Delegate  of  Heaven." 

Recovering  from  amaze,  the  Priest  replied  : 
"  Thou  art  indeed  the  Delegate  of  Heaven  ! 
What  thou  hast  said  surely  thou  shall  perforin. 
We  ratify  thy  mission.     Go  in  peace." 


The  feast  was  spread,  the  sparkling  bowl  went 

And  in  the  assembled  court  the  minstrel  harp'd 

A  song  of  otlier  days.     Sudden  they  lieard 
The  horn's  loud  blast.     "  This  is  no  time  I'or  cares  ; 
Feast  ye  the  messenger  without!  "  cried  Charles, 
"  Enough  hath  of  the  wearying  day  been  given 
To  the  public  weal." 

Obedient  to  the  King 
Tiie  guard  invites  the  way-worn  messenger. 
"Nay,  I  will  see  the  monarch,"  he  replied, 
"  And  he  must  hear  my  tidings;  duty-urged, 
I  have  for  many  a  long  league  hasten'd  on. 
Not  thus  to  be  repell'd."     Then  with  strong  arm 
Removing  him  who  barr'd  his  onward  way, 
The  hall  he  cnter'd. 

"  King  of  France  !  I  come 
From  Orleans,  speedy  and  cflectual  aid 
Demanding  for  her  gallant  garrison. 
Faithful  to  thee,  though  thinn'd  in  many  a  fight. 
And  now  sore  pressed  by  want.     Rouse  thou  thy- 
And  with  the  spirit  that  becomes  a  King 
Responsive  to  his  people's  loyalty, 
Bring  succor  to  the  brave  who  in  thy  cause 
Abide  the  extremity  of  war." 

He  said. 
And  from  the  hall  departing,  in  amaze 
At  his  audacious  bearing  left  the  court. 
The  King  exclaim'd,  "  But  little  need  to  send 
Quick  succor  to  this  gallant  garrison. 
If  to  the  English  half  so  firm  a  front 
They  bear  in  battle  !  " 

"  In  the  field,  my  liege," 
Dunois  replied,  "  yon  Knight  hath  scrv'd  thee  well. 
Him  have  I  seen  the  foremost  of  the  fight, 
Wielding  so  manfully  his  battle-axe, 
That  whcrosoe'er  he  turn'd,  the  aft'righted  foe 
Let  fall  their  palsied  arms  with  powerless  stroke, 
Desperate  of  safety.     I  do  marvel  much 
That  he  is  here  :  Orleans  must  be  hard  press'd 
To  send  the  bravest  of  her  garrison 
On  such  connnission." 

Swift  the  Maid  exclaim'd, 
"  I  tell  thee.  Chief,  that  there  tlie  English  wolves 
Shall  never  raise  their  yells  of  victory  ! 
The  will  of  God  defends  those  fated  walls, 
And  resting  in  full  faith  on  that  high  will, 
I  mock  their  efforts.     But  the  night  draws  on ; 
Retire  we  to  repose.     To-morrow's  sun. 
Breaking  the  darkness  of  the  sepulchre, 
Shall  on  that  armor  gleam,  through  many  an  age 
There  for  this  great  emergency  reserved." 
She  said,  and  rising  from  the  board,  retired. 

Meantime  the  herald's  brazen  voice  proclaim'd 
Coming  solemnity,  and  far  and  wide 
Spread  the  glad   tidings.     Then  all  labor  ceased  ; 
The  ploughman  from  the  unfinish'd  furrow  hastes  ; 
The  armorer's  anvil  beats  no  more  the  din 
Of  future  slaughter.    Through  the  thronging  streets 
The  buzz  of  asking  wonder  hums  along. 

On  to  St.  Katharine's  sacred  fane  they  go; 
The  holy  fathers  with  the  imaged  cross 
Leading  the  long  procession.     Next,  as  one 
Suppliant  for  mercy  to  the  King  of  kings, 
And  grateful  for  the  benefits  of  Heaven, 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 

BOOK    IV. 

The  Monarch  pass'd,  and  by  his  side  tlie  Maid ; 

Her  lovely  limbs  robed  in  a  snow-white  vest, 

Wistless  that  every  eye  on  her  was  bent, 

With  stately  step  she  moved ;  her  laboring  soul 

To  high  thoughts  elevate  ;  and  gazing  round 

AVitli  a  full  eye,  that  of  the  circling  throng 

And  of  the  visible  world  unseeing,  seem  d 

Fix'd  upon  objects  seen  by  none  beside. 

Near  her  the  Avarlike  Son  of  Orleans  came 

Prccniinent.     lie,  nerving  his  young  frame 

With  exercise  robust,  had  scaled  the  cliiF, 

And  plunging  in  the  river's  full-swollen  stream, 

Stemm'd  with  broad  breast  its  current ;  so  his  form. 

Sinewy  and  firm,  and  fit  for  deeds  of  arms, 

Tower'd  above  the  throng  effeminate. 

No  dainty  bath  had  from  his  hardy  limbs 

Kfl^accd  the  hauberk's  honorable  marks ; ''" 

His  helmet  bore  of  hostile  steel  the  dints 

Many  and  deep ;  upon  his  pictured  shield 

A  Lion  vainly  struggled  in  the  toils, 

Whilst  by  his  side  the  cub  with  pious  rage, 

Assail'd  the  huntsman.    Tremouille  followed  them. 

Proud  of  the  favor  of  a  Prince  who  seem'd 

Given  up  to  vain  delights;  conspicuous  he 

In  arms  with  azure  and  with  gold  anneal'd, 

Gaudily  graceful,  by  no  hostile  blade 

Defaced,  nor  e'er  with  hostile  blood  distain'd  ; 

Trimly  accoutred  court-habilimcnts, 

Gay  lady-dazzling  armor,  fit  to  adorn 

Tourney,  or  tilt,  the  gorgeous  pageantry 

Of  mimic  warfare.     After  him  there  came 

A  train  of  courtiers,  summer  flics  that  sport 

In  the  sunbeam  of  favor,  insects  sprung 

From  the  court  dunghill,  greedy  blood-suckers. 

The  foul  corruption-gender'd  swarm  of  state. 

As  o'er  some  flowery  field  the  busy  bees 
Fill  with  their  happy  hum  the  fragrant  air, 
A  grateful  music  to  the  traveller, 
Who  in  the  shade  of  some  wide-spreading  tree 
Rests  on  his  way  awhile ;  or  like  the  sound 
Of  many  waters  down  some  far-off  steep 
Holding  their  endless  course,  the  murmur  rose 
Of  admiration.     Every  gazing  eye 
Dwelt  on  the  Prophetess ;  of  all  beside. 
The  long  procession  and  the  gorgeous  train, 
Though  glittering  they  with  gold  and  sparkling 

And  their  rich  plumes  high  waving  to  the  air, 

The  consecrated  dome  they  reach, 
Rear'd  to  St.  Katharine's  holy  memory. 
Her  tale  the  altar  told  ;  how  Maximin, 
His  raised  lip  kindled  with  a  savage  smile. 
In  such  deep  fury  bade  the  tenter'd  wheel 
Rend  her  life  piecemeal,  that  the  very  face 
Of  the  hard  executioner  relax'd 
With  pity;  calm  she  heard,  no  drop  of  blood 
Forsook  her  cheek,  her  steady  eye  was  turn'd 
Heaven-ward,  and  hope  and  meekest  piety 
Beam'd  in  that  patient  look.     Nor  vain  her  trust ; 
For  lo  !  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  descends, 
And  crumbles  with  his  fiery  touch  the  wheel ! 
One  glance  of  holy  triumph  Katharine  cast. 
Then  bow'd  her  to  the  sword  of  martyrdom.  ^^ 

Her  eye  averting  from  the  pictured  tale, 
The  delegated  damsel  knelt  and  pour'd 
To  Heaven  her  earnest  prayer. 

A  trophied  tomb 
Stood  near  the  altar  where  some  warrior  slept 
The  sleep  of  death  beneath.     A  massy  stone 
And  rude-ensculptured  effigy  o'erlaid 
The  sepulchre.     In  silent  wonderment 
The  expectant  multitude  with  eager  eye 
Gaze,  listening  as  the  mattock's  heavy  stroke 
Invades  the  tomb's  repose  :  the  heavy  stroke 
Sounds  hollow :  over  the  high-vaulted  roof 
Roll  the  repeated  echoes :  soon  the  day 
Dawns  on  the  grave's  long  night,  the  slant  sunbeam 
Falls  on  the  arms  inshrined,  the  crested  helm. 
The  bauldrick,  and  the  shield,  and  sacred  sword.^^ 
A  sound  of  awe-repress'd  astonishment 
Rose  from  the  crowd.     The  delegated  Maid 
Over  her  robes  the  hallowed  breastplate  threw, 
Self-fitted  to  her  form ;  on  her  helm'd  head 
The  white  plumes  nod,  majestically  slow  ; 
She  lifts  the  buckler  and  the  sacred  sword, 
Gleaming  portentous  light. 

The  wondering  crowd 
Raise    their  loud   shout  of  transport.     "  God  of 

The  Maid  exclaim'd,  "  Father  all  merciful ! 
Devoted  to  whose  holy  will,  I  wield 
The  sword  of  vengeance ;  go  before  our  host ! 
All-just  avenger  of  the  innocent, 
Be  thou  our  Champion  !  God  of  Peace,  preserve 
Those  whom  no  lust  of  glory  leads  to  arms." 

She  ceased,  and  with  an  eager  hush  the  crowd 
Still  listen'd  ;  a  brief  while  throughout  the  dome 
Deep  silence  dwelt ;  then  with  a  sudden  burst 
Devout  and  full,  they  raised  the  choral  hymn, 
"  Thee  Lord  we  praise,  our  God  ! "  the  tlirong 

Catch  the  strange  tidings,  join  the  hymn  of  joj', 
And  thundering  transport  peals  along  the  heaven. 

As  through  the  parting  crowd  the  Virgin  pass'd, 
He  who  from  Orleans  on  the  yesternight 
Demanded  succor,  clasp'd  with  warmth  her  hand, 
And  with  a  bosom-thrilling  voice  exclaim'd, 
"  Ill-omen'd  Maid  !  victim  of  thine  own  worth, 
Devoted  for  this  king-curst  realm  of  France, 
Ill-omen'd  Maid,  I  pity  thee  !  "  so  saying, 
He  turn'd  into  the  crowd.     At  his  strange  words 
Distufb'd,  the  warlike  Virgin  pass'd  along, 
And  much  revolving  in  her  troubled  mind, 
Retrod  the  court. 

And  now  the  horn  announced 
The  ready  banquet ;  they  partook  the  feast,^'' 
Then  rose  and  in  the  cooling  water  cleansed 
Their  hands,  and  seated  at  the  board  again 
Enjoy'd  the  bowl,  or  scented  high  with  spice. 
Or  flavor'd  with  the  fragrant  summer  fruit. 
Or  luscious  with  metheglin  mingled  rich.™ 
Meantime  the  Trouveur  struck  the  harp;  he  sung 
Of  Lancelot  du  Lake,  the  truest  Knight 
That  ever  loved  fair  Lady ;  and  the  youth 
Of  Cornwall '''  underneath  whose  maiden  sword 
The  strength  of  Ireland  fell ;  and  he  who  struck 

BOOK    IV. 

JOAN    OP    ARC. 


Tlie  dolorous  stroke,'-  the  blaim-less  and  the  brave, 

VVlio  died  beneath  a  brotlier's  errin<r  arm. 

Ye  have  not  perish'd,  Chiefs  of  Carducl ! 

The  songs  of  earlier  years  embalm  your  fame- 

And  haply  yet  some  Poet  shall  arise. 

Like  that  divinest  Tuscan,"  and  enwrcathe 

The  immortal  garland  for  himself  and  you. 

The  harp  still  rung  beneath  the  high-arch'd  roof, 
And  listening  eager  to  the  favorite  lay, 
The  guests  sat  silent,  when  into  the  hall 
The  Messenger  from  that  besieged  town, 
Ilcenter'd.     "  It  is  pleasant,  King  of  France," 
Said  he,  "  to  sit  and  hear  the  harper's  song  : 
Far  other  music  hear  the  men  of  Orleans  ! 
Famine  is  there  ;  and  there  the  imploring  cr}^ 
Of  Hunger  ceases  not." 

"  Insolent  man  !  " 
Exclaim'd  the  Monarch,  "  cease  to  interrupt 
Our  liour  of  festival;  it  is  not  thine 
To  instruct  me  in  my  duty." 

Of  reproof 
Careless,  the  stranger  to  the  minstrel  cried, 
"Why  harpest  thou  of  good  King  Arthur's  fame 
Amid  these  walls .'     Virtue  and  genius  love 
That  lofty  lay.     Hast  thou  no  loose,  lewd  tale 
To  pamper  and  provoke  the  appetite .' 
Such  should  procure  thee  worthy  recompense  ! 
Or  rather  sing  thou  of  that  wealthy  Lord, 
Who  took  the  ewe  lainb  from  the  poor  man's  bosom, 
That  was  to  him  even  as  a  daughter  I  Charles, 
This  parable  would  I  tell,  prophet-like. 
And  look  at  thee  and  say,  '  Thou  art  the  man  I '  " 

He  said,  and  with  a  quick  and  troubled  step 
Withdrew.     Astonish'd  at  his  daring  guise. 
The  guests  sat  heedless  of  the  lay  awhile, 
Pondering  his  words  mysterious,  till  at  length 
The  Court  dispersed.     Retiring  from  the  hall, 
Charles  and  the  delegated  damsel  sought 
The  inner  palace.     There  the  gentle  Queen 
Awaited  them  :  with  her  Joan  lov'd  to  pass 
Her  intervals  of  rest;  lor  she  Iiad  won 
The  Virgin's  heart  by  her  mild  melancholy, 
The  calm  and  duteous  patience  that  deplored 
A  husband's  cold  half-love.     To  her  she  told 
With   what  stranjre  words   the   messenger  from 

Had  roused  uneasy  wonder  in  her  mind ; 
For  on  her  ear  yet  vibrated  his  voice. 
When  lo !  again  he  came,  and  at  the  door 
Stood  scowling  round. 

"  Wh}'  dost  thou  haunt  me  thus," 
The  monarch  cried ;  "  is  there  no  i)lace  secure 
From  thy  rude  insolence .'  unmanner'd  man  ! 
I  know  thee  not !  " 

"  Then  learn  to  knf)w  me,  Charles !  " 
Solemnly  he  replied;  "read  well  my  face, 
That  thou  may'st  know  it  on  that  dreadful  day, 
When  at  the  Throne  of  God  I  shall  demand 
His  justice  on  thee  !  "     Turning  from  the  King, 
To  Agnes  as  she  entered,  in  a  tone 
More  low,  more  mournfully  severe,  he  cried, 
"  Dost  thou  too  know  me  not !  " 

She  glanced  on  him, 

And  pale  and  breathless  hid  her  head  convulsed 
In  the  JNIaid's  bosom. 

"  King  of  France  !  "  he  said, 
"  She  loved  me,  and  by  mutual  word  and  will 
W^o  were  betroth'd,  when,  in  unhappy  hour, 
I  left  her,  as  in  fealty  bound,  to  fight 
Thy  battles.     In  mine  absence  thou  didst  come 
'i'o  tempt  her  then  unspotted  purity  — 
For  pure  she  was.  —  Alas  !  these  courtly  robes 
Hide  not  the  indelible  stain  of  infamy  ! 
Thou  canst  not  with  thy  golden  belt  put  on 
An  honorable  name,'^  O  lost  to  me, 
And  to  thyself,  forever,  ever  lost, 
My  poor  polluted  Agnes !  —  Charles,  that  faith 
Almost  is  shaken,  which  should  be  henceforth 
My  only  hope  :  thou  hast  thy  wicked  will. 
While  I  the  victim  of  her  guilt  and  thine, 
TJiough  meriting  alike  from  her  and  thee 
Far  other  guerdon,  bear  about  with  me 
A  wound  for  which  this  earth  affords  no  balm, 
And  doubt  Heaven's  justice." 

So  he  said,  and  frown'd 
Austere  as  he  who  at  Mahommed's  door 
Knock'd  loud  and  frequent,  at  whose  dreadful  mien 
Stricken  with  terror,  all  beholders  fled. 
Even  the  prophet,  almost  terrified. 
Scarcely  could  bear  his  presence ;  for  he  knew 
That  this  was  the  Death-Angel  Azrael, 
And  that  his  hour  was  come.     Conscious  of  guilt 
The  Monarch  sate,  nor  could  endure  to  face 
Ilis  bosom-probing  frown.     The  Maid  of  Arc 
Meantime  had  read  his  features,  and  she  cried 
"  I  know  thee,  Conrade  !  "     Rising  from  her  seat. 
She  took  his  hand,  for  he  stood  motionless, 
Gazing  on  Agnes  now  with  steady  eye. 
Severe  though  cahn  :  him  from  the  Court  she  drew, 
And  to  the  river  side,  resisting  not. 
Both  sad  and  silent,  led ;  till  at  the  last 
As  from  a  dream  awaking,  Conrade  look'd 
Full  on  the  Maid,  and  falling  on  her  neck. 
He  wept. 

"I  know  thee,  Damsel !  "  he  exclaim'd. 
"  Dost  thou  remember  tliat  tempestuous  night, 
When  I,  a  weather-beaten  traveller,  sought 
Your  hospitable  door .'  Ah  me  !  I  then 
Was  happy  !  You  too  sojourn'd  then  in  peace. 
Fool  that  I  was  !  I  blamed  such  happiness, 
Arraign'd  it  as  a  guilty,  selfish  sloth, 
Unhappil)'  prevailing,  so  1  fear  me. 
Or  why  art  thou  at  Chinon .'  " 

Him  the  Maid 
Answering,  address'd  :  "  I  do  remember  well, 
That  night ;  for  then  the  holy  Spirit  first. 
Waked  by  thy  words,  possess'd  ine." 

Conrade  cried, 
"Poor  JNIaiden,  thou  wert happy  !  thou  hadst  lived 
Blessing  and  blest,  if  I  had  never  stray 'd, 
Needlessl}'  rigid,  from  my  peaceful  path. 
And  thou  hast  left  thine  home  then,  and  obey'd 
Tlie  feverish  fancies  of  an  ardent  brain  ! 
And  hast  thou  left  hiin  too,  the  youth  whose  eye 
Forever  glancing  on  thee,  spake  so  well 
Affection's  eloquent  tale  ?  " 

So  as  he  said, 
Rush'd  the  warm  purple  to  tlie  Virgin's  cheek 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


"I  atn  alone,"  slie  answered,  "for  tliis  realm 

Devoted."     Nor  to  answer  more  the  Maid 

Endured,  for  many  a  melancholy  thought 

Throng'd  on  her  aching  memory.     Her  mind  scye 

Beheld  Domrcmi  and  the  fields  of  Arc  : 

Her  burden'd  heart  was  full ;  such  grief  she  felt, 

Yet  such  sweet  solacing  of  self-applause, 

As  cheers  a  banish'd  Patriot's  lonely  hours 

When  Fancy  pictures  to  him  all  he  loved, 

Till  the  big  tear-drop  rushes  o'er  its  orb. 

And  drowns  the  soft  enchantment. 

With  a  look 
That  spake  solicitous  wonder,  Conrade  eyed 
The  silent  Maid ;  nor  would  the  Maid  repress 
Tlie  thoughts  that  swell'd  witliin  her,  or  from  him 
Hide  her  soul's  workings.     "  'Twas  on  the  last  day 
Before  I  left  Domremi ;  eve  had  closed  ; 
I  sat  beside  the  brook ;  my  soul  was  full, 
As  if  inebriate  with  Divinity. 
Then,  Conrade  !  I  beheld  a  ruffian  herd 
Circle  a  flaming  pile,  where  at  the  stake 
A  woman  stood  ;  tlie  iron  bruised  her  breast. 
And  round  her  limbs,  half-garmented,  the  fire 
Curl'd  its  fierce  flakes.     I  saw  her  countenance, 
I  knew  Myself."  '^     Then,  in  a  tone  subdued 
Of  calmness,  "  There  are  moments  when  the  soul 
From  her  own  impulse  with  strange  dread  recoils, 
Suspicious  of  herself;  but  with  a  full, 
And  perfect  faith  I  know  this  vision  sent 
From  Heaven,  and  feel  of  its  unerring  truth, 
As  that  God  liveth,  that  I  live  myself. 
The  feeling  that  deceives  not." 

By  the  hand 
Her  Conrade  held  and  cried,  "  Ill-fated  Maid, 
That  I  have  torn  thee  from  aflfection's  breast. 
My  soul  will  groan  in  anguish.     Thou  wilt  serve. 
Like  me,  the  worthless  Court,  and  having  served. 
In  the  hour  of  ill  abandon 'd,  thou  wilt  curse 
The  duty  that  deluded.     Of  the  world 
Fatigued,  and  loathing  at  my  fellow-men, 
I  shall  be  seen  no  more.     There  is  a  path''* — 
The  eagle  hath  not  mark'd  it,  the  young  wolf 
Knows  not  its  hidden  windings  :  I  have  trod 
That  path,  and  found  a  melancholy  den, 
Fit  place  for  penitence  and  hopeless  woe. 
Where  sepulchred,  the  ghost  of  what  he  was, 
Conrade  may  pass  his  few  and  evil  days. 
Waiting  the  wish'd-for  summons  to  lay  down 
His  weary  load  of  life." 

But  then  the  Maid 
Fix'd  on  the  warrior  her  reproving  eye  ; 
"  I  pass'd  the  fertile  Auxerrois,"  she  said  ; 
"  The  vines  had  spread  their  interwoven  shoots 
Over  the  unpruned  vineyards,  and  the  grape 
Rotted  beneath  the  leaves ;  for  there  was  none 
To  tread  the  vintage,  and  the  birds  of  Heaven 
Had  had  their  fill.     I  saw  the  cattle  start 
As  they  did  hear  the  loud  alarum-bell," 
And  with  a  piteous  moaning  vainly  seek 
To  fly  the  coming  slaughterers.     I  look'd  back 
Upon  the  cottage  where  I  had  partaken 
The  peasant's  meal,  —  and  saw  it  wrapt  in  flames. 
And  then  I  thank'd  my  God  that  I  had  burst 
The  ties,  strong  as  they  are,  which  bind  us  down 
To  selfish  happiness,  and  on  this  earth 

Was  as  a  pilgrim™ — Conrade  !  rouse  thyself ! 
Cast  the  weak  nature  oft'!'*    A  time  like  this 
Is  not  for  gentler  feelings,  for  the  glow 
Of  love,  the  overflowings  of  the  heart. 
There  is  oppression  in  thy  country,  Conrade  ! 
There  is  a  cause,  a  holy  cause,  that  needs 
The  brave  man's  aid.     Live  for  it,  and  enjoy 
Earth's  noblest  recompense,  thine  own  esteem; 
Or  die  in  that  good  cause,  and  thy  reward 
Shall  sure  be  found  in  Heaven." 

He  answer'd  not, 
But  pressing  to  his  heart  the  virgin's  hand, 
Hasten'd  across  the  plain.     She  with  dim  eyes  — 
For  gushing  tears  obscured  them  —  follow'd  him 
Till  lost  in  distance.     With  a  weight  of  thought 
Opprest,  along  the  poplar-planted  Vienne 
Awhile  she  wander'd,  then  upon  the  bank 
She  laid  her  down,  and  watch'd  the  tranquil  stream 
Flow  with  a  quiet  murmuring,  by  the  clouds 
Of  evening  purpled.     The  perpetual  flow, 
The  ceaseless  murmuring,  lull'd  her  to  such  dreams 
As  memory  in  her  melancholy  mood 
Loves  best.     The  wonted  scenes  of  Arc  arose  ; 
She  saw  the  forest  brook,  the  weed  that  waved 
Its  long  green  tresses  in  the  stream,  the  crag 
Which  overbrow'd  the  spring,  and  that  old  yew 
Which  through  the  bare  and  rifted  rock  had  forced 
Its  twisted  trunk,  the  berries  cheerful  red 
Starring  its  gloomy  green.     Her  pleasant  home 
She  saw,  and  those  who  made  that  home  so  dear, 
Her  lov'd  lost  friends.     The  mingled  feelings  fill'd 
Her  eyes,  when  from  behind  a  voice  was  heard  — 
'•  O  Lady  I  canst  thou  tell  me  where  to  find 
The   Maid   whom   Heaven   hath   sent   to   rescue 

France  ?  " 
Tlirill'd  by  the  well-known  tones,  she  started  up, 
And  fell  upon  the  neck  of  Theodore. 

"  Have  1  then  found  thee  !  "     cried  the  bnpas- 

sioned  youth ; 
"  Henceforth  we  part  no  more  ;  but  where  thou 

Thither  go  I.     Beloved  !  in  the  front 
Of  battle  thou  shalt  find  me  at  thy  side  ; 
And  in  the  breach  this  breast  shall  be  thy  shield 
And  rampart.     Oh,  ungenerous  !  Why  from  me 
Conceal  the  inspiration  .'  why  from  me 
Hide  thy  miraculous  purpose.'     Am  I  then 
So  all-unworthy  that  thou  shouldst  set  forth 
Beneath  another's  guidance  .'  " 

Thus  he  cried, 
Mingling  reproach  with  tenderness,  yet  still 
Clasping  in  warm  embrace  the  maid  beloved. 
She  of  her  bidding  and  futurity 
Awhile  forgetful,  patient  of  the  embrace. 
With  silent  tears  of  joy  bedew'd  his  neck. 
At  length,  "  I  hope,"  she  cried,  "  thou  art  not  come 
With  heavier  fault  and  breach  of  nearer  tie  ! 
How  did  thy  mother  spare  thee,  —  thou  alone 
The  stay  and  comfort  of  her  widowed  age .'' 
Did  she  upon  thy  parting  steps  bestow 
Her  free-will  blessing.^  or  hast  thou  set  forth. 
Which  Heaven  forbid,  unlicensed  and  unblest.'  " 

"  Oh,  surely  not  unblest !  "  the  youth  replied  ; 

BOOK    V. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Yot  conscious  of  his  mirc])(>nto(l  fiiult, 
\\'M\  countenance  llush'd,  anil  lUUiTing  in  reply  : 
"  She  wept  at  my  departure  ;  she  would  fain 
Have  turned  me  from  my  purpose,  and  my  heart 
I'erliaps  had  foil'd  me,  if  it  had  not  glow'd 
Wltli  ardor  like  thine  own;  the  sacred  fire 
With  which  thy  bosom  burns  had  kindled  me; 
High  in  prophetic  hope,  I  bade  her  place 
Her  trust  in  Heaven;  I  bade  her  look  to  hear 
Good  tidings  soon  of  glorious  victory; 
I  told  her  I  should  soon  return,  —  return 
With  thee,  and  thou  wouldst  be  to  her  old  age 
What  Madelon  had  been." 

As  thus  he  spake. 
Warm  with  tlie  imaginary  bliss,  he  clasp'd 
Tlie  dear  one  closer  to  his  yearning  heart. 
But  the  devoted  Virgin  in  his  arms 
Started  and  slmdder'd,  for  the  flaming  pile 
Flashed  on  remembrance  now,  and  on  her  soul 
The  wliole  terrific  vision  rose  again. 
A  death-like  paleness  at  the  dreadful  thought 
Wither'd  her  cheek;  cold  damps  suffused  her  brow, 
And  falling  on  the  neck  of  Theodore, 
Feeble  and  faint  she  hung.     His  eager  eye 
Concentring  all  the  anguish  of  the  soul, 
And  strain'd  in  anxious  love,  gazed  fearfully 
With  wondering  anguish  ;  till  ennobling  thoughts 
Of  her  high  mission  roused  her,  and  her  soul 
Collected,  and  she  spake. 

"  My  Theodore, 
Thou  hast  done  ill  to  quit  thy  mother's  home  ! 
Alone  and  aged  she  will  weep  for  thee. 
Wasting  her  little  that  is  left  of  life 
In  anguish.     Now  go  back  again  to  Arc, 
And  cheer  her  wintry  hours  of  widowhood, 
And  love  my  memory  there.  ' 

Swift  he  exclaim'd, 
"  Nay,  Maid !  the  pang  of  parting  is  o'erpast. 
And  my  dear  mother  looks  for  the  glad  hour 
When  we  shall  both  return.     Amid  the  war 
How  many  an  arm  will  seek  thy  single  life, 
How  many  a  sword  and  spear !  I  will  go  with  thee 
And  spread  the  guardian  shield 

"  Nay,"  she  replied, 
"  I  shall  not  need  thy  succor  in  the  war. 
Me,  Heaven,  if  so  seem  good  to  its  high  will, 
Will  save.     I  shall  be  happier,  Theodore, 
Thinking  that  thou  dost  sojourn  safe  at  home. 
And  make  thy  mother  happy." 

The  youth's  cheek 
A  rapid  blush  disorder'd.     "  Oh  !  the  court 
Is  pleasant  then,  and  thou  wouldst  fain  forget 
A  humble  villager,  who  only  boasts 
The  treasure  of  the  heart  I" 

She  look'd  at  him 
With  a  reproaching  eye  of  tenderness: 
"  Injurious  man  !  devoted  for  this  realm, 
I  go  a  willing  victim.     The  dark  veil 
Hath  been  withdrawn  for  me,  and  I  have  seen 
The  fearful  features  of  Futurity. 
Yes,  Theodore,  I  shall  redeem  my  country, 
Abandoning  for  it  the  joys  of  life. 
Yea,  life  itself. "     Then  on  his  neck  she  fell. 
And  with  a  faltering  voice,  "  Return  to  Arc  ! 
[  do  not  tell  thee  there  are  other  maids 

As  fair;  for  thou  wilt  love  my  memory. 

Hallowing  to  me  the  temple  of  thy  heart. 

Worthy  a  happier,  not  a  better  love,** 

My  Theodore  !  "  —  Then,  pressing  his  pale  lips, 

A  last  and  holy  kiss  the  virgin  fix'd. 

And  fled  across  the  plain. 

She  reach'd  the  court 
Breathless.     The  mingled  movements  of  her  mind 
Sliook  every  fibre.     Sad  and  sick  at  heart. 
Fain  to  her  lonely  chamber's  solitude 
The  Maiden  had  retired ;  but  her  the  King 
Met  on  the  threshold.     He  of  the  late  scene 
Forgetful  and  his  crime,  as  cheerful  sccm'd 
As  though  there  had  not  been  a  God  in  Heaven  ! 
"  Enter  the  hall,"  he  said,  "  the  maskers  there 
Join  in  the  dance.     Why,  Maiden,  art  thou  sad.' 
Has  that  rude  madman  shook  thy  gentle  frame 
With  his  strange  speeches.''" 

Ere  the  Maid  replied, 
The  Son  of  Orleans  came  with  joyful  speed, 
Poising  his  massy  javelin.     "  Thou  hast  roused 
The  sleeping  virtue  of  the  sons  of  France ; 
They  crowd  around  the  standard,"  cried  the  chief. 
"  Our  brethren,  pent  in  Orleans,  every  moment 
Gaze  from  the  watch-tower  with  the  sickening  eye 
Of  expectation." 

Then  the  King  exclaim'd, 
"  O  chosen  by  Heaven  !  defer  one  day  thy  march, 
That  humbled  at  the  altar  we  may  join 
The  general  prayer.     Be  these  our  holy  rites 
To-morrow's  task;  —  to-night  for  merriment!  " 

The   Maid    replied,   "  The   wretched    ones    in 
In  fear  and  hunger  and  expiring  hope, 
Await  my  succor,  and  my  prayers  would  plead 
In  Heaven  against  me,  did  they  waste  one  hour 
When  active  duty  calls.     For  this  night's  mirth 
Hold  me  excused ;  in  truth  I  am  not  fit 
For  merriment ;  a  heavy  charge  is  on  me. 
And  I  must  put  away  all  mortal  thoughts."^' 
Her  heart  was  full,  and  pausing,  she  rcpress'd 
The  imbiddcn  anguish.     "  Lo !  they  crowd  around 
The  standard !    Thou,  Dunois,  the  chosen  troops 
Marshal  in  speed,  for  early  with  the  dawn 
We  march  to  rescue  Orleans  from  the  foe." 


Scarce  had  the  early  dawn  from  Chinon's  towers 

Made  visible  the  mist  that  curl'd  along 

The  river's  winding  way,  when  from  her  couch 

The  martial  Maid  arose.     She  mail'd  her  limbs; 

The  white  plumes  nodded  o'er  her  helmed  head  ; 

She  girt  the  sacred  falchion  by  her  side. 

And,  like  a  youth  who  from  his  mother's  arms, 

For  his  first  field  impatient,  breaks  away, 

Poising  the  lance  went  forth. 

Twelve  hundred  men, 
Rearing  in  order'd  ranks  their  glittering  spears, 
Await  her  coming.     Terrible  in  arms 
Before  them  towcr'd  Dunois,  his  manly  face 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    V. 

O'crshadow'd  by  tlie  helmet's  iron  cheeks. 

The  assembled  court  gazed  on  the  marshall'd  train. 

And  at  the  gate  the  aged  prelate  stood 

To  pour  his  blessing  on  the  chosen  host. 

And  now  a  soft  and  solemn  symphony 

Was  heard,  and  chanting  high  the  hallow'd  hymn, 

From  the  near  convent  came  the  vestal  maids. 

A  iioly  banner,  woven  by  virgin  hands. 

Snow-white  they  bore.     A  mingled  sentiment 

Of  awe  and  eager  ardor  for  the  fight, 

Tlirill'd  through  the  army,  as  the  reverend  man 

Took  the  white  standard,  and  with  heaven- ward  eye 

Call'd  on  tlie  God  of  Justice,  blessing  it. 

The  Maid,  her  brows  in  reverence  unlielm'd, 

Her  dark  iiair  floating  on  the  niornino-  gale. 

Knelt  to  his  prayer,  and  stretching  forth  her  hand 

Received  the  mystic  banner.     From  the  host 

A  loud  and  universal  shout  burst  forth, 

As  rising  from  the  ground,  upon  her  brow 

Slie  placed  the  plumed  casque,  and  waved  on  high 

The  banner'd  lilies.     On  their  way  they  march, 

And  dim  in  distance,  soon  the  towers  of  Chinon 

Fade  from  the  eye  reverted. 

The  sixth  sun, 
Purpling  the  sky  with  his  dilated  light, 
Sunk  westering;  when  embosom'd  in  tlie  dcptli 
Of  that  old  forest,  wjiich  for  many  a  league 
Shadow'd  the  hills  and  vales  of  Orleannois, 
Tliey  pitch  their  tents.     The  hum  of  occujjation 
Sounds  ceaseless.     Waving  to  the  evening-  crale 
Tlie  streamers  flutter;  and  ascending  slow 
Beneatli  the  foliage  of  the  forest  trees. 
With  many  a  light  hue  tinged,  the  curling  smoke 
Melts  in  the  impurpled  air.     Leaving  her  tent. 
The  martial  Maiden  wandcr'd  through  the  wood ; 
There,  by  a  streamlet,  on  the  mossy  bank 
Reclined,  she  saw  a  damsel,  her  long  locks 
With  willow  wreathed ;  upon  her  lap  there  lay 
A  dark-hair'd  man,  listening  the  while  she  sung 
Sad  ditties,  and  enwrcathed  to  bind  his  brow 
The  melancholy  garland.     At  the  sound 
Of  one  in  arms  approaching,  she  had  fled  ; 
But  Conrade,  looking  upward,  recognized 
The  Maid  of  Arc.     '•'  Nay,  fear  not,  Isabel," 
Said  he,  "for  this  is  one  of  gentle  kind, 
Whom  even  the  wretched  need  not  fear  to  love." 

So  saying,  he  arose  and  took  her  hand. 
And  press'd  it  to  his  bosom.     "  My  weak  heart 
Though  school'd  by  wrongs  to  loath  at  human  kind, 
Will  beat,  rebellious  to  its  own  resolves. 
Come  hither,  outcast  one  !  and  call  her  friend 
And  s!ie  will  be  thy  friend  more  readily 
Because  thou  art  unhappy." 

Saw  a  tear  starting  in  the  virgin's  eye 
And  glancing  upon  Conrade,  she  too  wept. 
Wailing  his  wilder'd  senses. 

"  Mission'd  Maid  '  " 
Tlie  v/arrior  cried,  "be  happy  !  for  tny  power 
Can  make  this  sufferer  so.     From  Orleans  driven, 
Orphan'd  by  war,  and  of  her  only  friend 
Bereft,  I  found  her  wandering  in  the  wilds. 
Worn  out  with  want  and  wretchedness.     Thou, 

Wilt  his  beloved  to  the  youth  restore ; 
And  trust  me,  Maid  !  the  miserable  feel 
When  they  on  others  bestow  happiness, 
Their  happiest  consolation." 

She  replied, 
Pressing  the  damsel's  hand,  in  the  mild  tone 
Of  equal  friendship,  solacing  her  cares. 
"  Soon  shall  we  enter  Orleans,"  said  the  Maid  ; 
A  few  hours  in  her  dream  of  victory 
England  shall  triuinpli,  then  to  be  awaked 
By  the  loud  thunder  of  Almighty  wrath  ! 
Irksome  meantime  the  busy  camp  to  me 
A  solitary  woman.     Isabel, 
Wert  thou  the  while  companion  of  my  tent, 
Lightlier  tlie  time  would  pass.     Return  with  me  ; 
I  may  not  long  be  absent." 

So  she  spake. 
The  wanderer  in  half-utter'd  words  express'd 
Grateful  assent.     "  Art  thou  astonish'd,  then, 
TJiat  one  though  powerful  is  benevolent  ? 
In    truth    thou   well   mayst   wonder!"    Conrade 

"  But  little  cause  to  love  the  mighty  ones 
Hath  the  low  cottager ;  for  with  its  shade 
Too  oft  doth  Power,  a  death-dew-dropping  tree, 
Blast  every  herb  beneath  its  baleful  boughs  ! 
Tell  thou  thy  sufferings,  Isabel  !  Relate 
How  warr'd  tlie  chieftains,  and  the  people  died. 
The  mission'd  Virgin  hath  not  heard  thy  w^oes  ; 
And  pleasant  to  mine  ear  the  twice-told  tale 
Of  sorrow." 

Gazing  on  the  martial  Maid 
She  read  her  wish,  and  spake.     "  A  wanderer  now, 
Friendless  and  hopeless,  still  I  love  to  think 
Upon  my  native  home,  and  call  to  mind 
Each  haunt  of  careless  youth ;  the  woodbined  wall, 
The  jessamine  that  round  the  straw-roof 'd  cot 
Its   fragrant  branches  wreathed,  beneath   whose 

I  wont  to  sit  and  watch  the  setting  sun, 
And  hear  the  thrush's  song.     Nor  far  remote, 
As  o'er  the  subject  landscape  round  I  gazed. 
The  towers  of  Ycnville  rose  upon  the  view. 
A  foreign  master  holds  my  father's  home  ! 
I,  far  away,  remember  the  past  years. 
And  weep. 

"  Two  brethren  form'd  our  family  ; 
Humble  we  were,  and  happy;  honest  toil 
Procured  our  homely  sustenance  ;  our  herds 
Duly  at  morn  and  evening  to  my  hand 
Gave  their  full  stores  ;  the  vineyard  we  had  rear'd 
Purpled  its  clusters  in  the  southern  sun. 
And,  plenteous  produce  of  my  father's  toil, 
The  yellow  harvest  billow'd  o'er  the  plain. 
How  cheerfully  around  the  blazing  hearth. 
When  all  the  labor  of  the  day  was  done, 
We  past  the  evening  hours ;  for  they  would  sing 
Or  merry  roundelay,  or  ditty  sad 
Of  maid  forsaken  and  the  willow  weed, 
Or  of  the  doughty  Paladins  of  France 
Some  warlike  fit,  the  while  my  spinning-wheel 
A  fitting  music  made. 

"  Thus  long  we  lived. 
And  happy.     To  a  neighboring  youth  my  hand, 
In  holy  wedlock  soon  to  be  consign'd, 

BOOK    V. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Was  plighted :  my  poor  Francis ! "  Here  she  paused, 
And  liere  she  wept  awhile. 

"  We  did  not  think 
The  desolating  stream  of  war  would  reach 
To  us;  but  soon  as  with  the  whirlwind's  speed 
Iluin  rush'd  round  us.*'-     jVIchun,  Clcry,  fell, 
Tiio  bauner'd  Leopard  waved  on  Gergcau's  wall ; 
JJnugcnci  yielded  ;  soon  the  foe  approach'd 
The  towers  of  Ycnville. 

"  Fatal  was  the  hour 
To  nie  and  mine  :  for  from  the  wall,  alas  ! 
The  rusty  sword  was  taken,  and  the  shield 
Which  long  had  moulder'd  on  the  mouldering  nail. 
To  meet  the  war  repair'd.     No  more  was  heard 
The  ballad,  or  tlie  merry  roundelay ; 
The  clattering  hammer's  clank,  the  grating  file 
Harsh  sounded  through  the  da}'  a  dismal  din  ; 
I  never  shall  forget  their  mournful  sound  ! 

"  My  father  stood  encircling  his  old  limbs 
In  long-forgotten  arms.     '  Come,  boys,'  he  cried  ; 
'  1  did  not  tliink  that  this  gray  head  again 
Should  bear  the  helmet's  weight ;  but  in  the  field 
Better  to  bravely  die  a  soldier's  death. 
Than  here  be  tamely  butclier'd.     Isabel, 
Go  to  the  abbey  !  if  we  should  survive, 
We  soon  shall  meet  again  ;  if  not,  my  child. 
There  is  a  better  world  I ' 

In  broken  words, 
Lifting  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  mj'  father  breathed 
His  blessing  on  me.     As  they  went  away, 
My  brethren  gazed  on  me,  and  wrung  my  hand 
In  silence,  for  they  loved  their  sister  well. 
From  the  near  cottage  Francis  join'd  the  troop. 
Then  did  I  look  on  our  forsaken  home, 
And  almost  sob  my  very  soul  away  ; 
For  all  my  hopes  of  happiness  were  fled. 
Even  like  a  dream  1 " 

"  Perish  these  mighty  ones," 
Cried  Conrade,  "  these  who  let  destruction  loose. 
Who  walk  elated  o'er  their  fields  of  fame. 
And  count  the  thousands  that  lie  slaughter'd  there, 
And  with  the  bodies  of  the  innocent,  rear 
Their  pyramid  of  glory  !  perish  these, 
The  epitome  of  all  the  pestilent  plagues 
That  Egypt  knew  !  who  send  their  locust  swarms 
O'er  ravaged  realms,  and  bid  the  brooks  run  blood. 
Fear  and  Destruction  go  before  their  path. 
And  Famine  dogs  tlieir  footsteps.     God  of  Justice, 
Let  not  the  innocent  blood  cry  out  in  vain  !  " 

Thus  while  he  spake,  the  murnmr  of  the  camp 
Rose  on  their  ear  ;  first  like  the  distant  sound 
When  the  full-foliaged  forest  to  the  storm 
Shakes  its  hoarse  head  ;  anon  with  louder  din  ; 
And  through  the  opening  glade  gleam'd  many  a  fire. 
Tlie  Virgin's  tent  they  enter'd  ;  there  the  board 
^S^as  spread,  the  wanderer  of  the  fare  partook, 
Then  thus  her  tale  renew'd  :  — 

"  Slow  o'er  the  hill 
Whose  rising  head  conceard  our  cot  I  past. 
Yet  on  my  journey  paused  awhile,  and  gazed 
And  wept ;  for  often  had  I  cross'd  the  hill 
With  cheerful  step,  and  seen  the  rising  smoke 
Of  hospitable  fire  ;  alas  !  no  smoke 

Curl'd  o'er  its  melanclioly  chimneys  now  ! 
Orleans  I  reach'd.     There  in  the  suburbs  stood 
The  abbey  ;  and  ere  long  1  learnt  the  fall 
Of  Yenville. 

"  On  a  day,  a  soldier  ask'd 
For  Isabel.     Scarce  could  my  ("altering  feet 
Support  me.     It  was  Francis,  and  alone  — 
The  sole  survivor  of  that  company  ! 

"  And  soon  the  foes  approach'd  :  impending  war 
Soon  sadden'd  Orleans.*^  There  the  bravest  chiefs 
Assembled  :  Thouars,  Coarase,  Ciiabann<'S, 
And  the  Sire  Chapclle,'*''  in  successful  war 
Since  wounded  to  the  death  ;  and  that  good  Knight 
Giresme  of  Rhodes,  who  in  a  better  cause 
Can  never  wield  the  crucifix  that  hilts 
His  hallowed  sword; '^^   and  Xaintraillcs  ransom'd 

And  Fayette  late  released,  and  that  young  Duke*^ 
Who  at  Verncuil  senseless  with  many  a  wound 
Fell  prisoner,  and  La  Hire,  the  merriest  man "' 
That  ever  yet  did  win  his  soldiers'  love  ; 
And  over  all  for  hardihood  reiiown'd 
The  Bastard  Orleans. 

"  These  within  the  town 
E.xpect  the  foe.     Twelve  hundred  chosen  men, 
Well  tried  in  war,  uproar  the  guardian  shield 
Beneath  their  banners.     Dreadful  was  the  sight 
Of  preparation.     The  wide  suburbs  stretch'd 
Along  the  pleasant  borders  of  the  Loire, 
Late  throng'd  with  luultitudcs,  now  feel  the  hand 
Of  ruin.     'These  preventive  care  destroys, 
Lest  England,  shelter'd  by  the  friendly  walls. 
Securely  should  approach.     The  monasteries 
Fell  in  the  general  waste.     The  holy  monks 
Unwillingly  their  long-accustom'd  haunts 
Abandon,  haunts  where  every  gloomy  nook 
Call'd  to  awaken'd  memory  some  trace 
Of  vision  seen,  or  sound  miraculous. 
Trembling  and  terrified,  their  noiseless  cells. 
For  the  rude  uproar  of  a  world  unknown. 
The  nuns  desert:  their  abbess,  more  composed. 
Collects  her  maids  around,  and  tells  her  beads. 
And  pours  the  timid  prayer  of  piety. 
The  pioneers,  by  day  and  night  employ'd, 
Throw  up  the  violated  earth,  to  impede 
The  foe  :  the  hollow  chambers  of  the  dead 
Echo'd  beneath  their  stroke.     The  brazen  tomb 
Which  late  recorded  death,  in  the  furnace  cast 
Is  made  to  inflict  it  now.     Sad  sight  it  was 
To  see  so  wide  a  waste ;  the  aged  ones 
HangincT  their  heads,  and  weeping  as  they  went 
O'er  the  fallen  dwellinjrs  of  their  happier  years  ; 
The  stern  and  sullen  silence  of  the  men 
Musing  on  vengeance  :  and  but  ill  represt, 
The  mother's  fears  as  to  her  breast  she  clasp'd 
Her  ill-doom'd  infant.     Soon  the  suburbs  lay 
One  ample  ruin  ;  ^  whence  the  stones  were  borne 
Within  the  town  to  serve  in  its  defence. 

"  And  now  without  the  walls  the  desolate  space 
Appear'd,  a  rough  and  melancholy  waste, 
With  uptorn  pavements  and  foundations  deep 
Of  many  a  ruin'd  dwelling.     Nor  within 
Less  dreary  was  the  scene  ;  at  evening  hour 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 

BOOK    V. 

No  more  the  merry  viol's  note  was  heard ;  '*'' 

No  more  tlic  aged  matron  at  Jut  door 

Miunm'd  cheery  to  her  spinning-wheel,  and  saw 

Her  children  dancing  to  the  roundelay. 

The  chieftains  strengthening  still  the  ancient  walls, 

Survey  tiiein  every  where  with  prying  eye  ; 

The  eager  youth,  in  anxious  preparation, 

Practise  the  arts  of  war ;  silent  and  stern, 

With  the  hurrying  restlessness  of  fear,  they  urge 

Their  gloomy  labors.     In  the  city  dwelt 

An  utter  silence  of  all  pleasant  sounds ; 

But  all  day  long  the  armorer's  beat  was  heard, 

And  all  night  long  it  echoed. 

"  Soon  the  foe 
Led  to  our  walls  the  siege  :  as  on  they  move 
The  clarions  clangor,  and  the  cheerful  fife. 
Accordant  to  the  thundering  drum's  deep  sound, 
Direct  their  measured  march.     Before  the  ranks 
Salisbury  was  seen,  Salisbury,  so  long  the  scourge 
Of  France;  and  Talbot  towered  by  his  side, 
Talbot,  at  whose  dread  name  the  froward  child 
Clings  mute  and  trembling  to  his  nurse's  breast. 
Suffolk  was  there,  and  Hungcrford,  and  Scales, 
And  Fastolffe,  victor  in  the  frequent  fight. 
Dark  as  the  autumnal  storm  they  roU'd  along, 
A  countless  host !  From  the  high  tower  I  mark'd 
The  dreadful  scene ;  I  saw  the  iron  gleam 
Of  javelins  sparkling  to  the  noontide  sun. 
Their  banners  tossing  to  the  troubled  gale, 
And  —  fearful  music  —  heard  upon  the  wind 
The  modulated  step  of  multitudes. 

"  There  in  the  midst,  shuddering  with  fear,  I  saw 
The  dreadful  stores  of  death ;  tremendous  roll'd 
Over  rough  roads  the  harsh  wheels ;  the  brazen  tubes 
Flash'd  in  tlie  sun  their  fearful  splendor  far. 
And,  last,  the  loaded  wagons  creak'd  along. 

"  Nor  were  our  chieftains,  whilst  their  care  pro- 
Human  defence,  neglectful  to  implore 
That  heavenly  aid,  deprived  of  which  the  strength 
Of  man  is  weakness.     Bearing  through  our  streets 
The  precious  relics  of  the  holy  dead. 
The   monks   and   nuns  pour'd   many  an   earnest 

Devoutly  join'd  by  all.     Saint  Aignan's  shrine 
Was  throng'd  by  supplicants,  the  general  voice 
Call'd  on  Saint  Aignan's  name'"'  again  to  save 
His  people,  as  of  yore,  before  he  past 
Into  the  fulness  of  eternal  rest ; 
When  by  the  Spirit  to  the  lingering  camp 
Of  iEtius  borne,  he  brought  the  timely  aid. 
And  Attila,  with  all  his  multitudes, 
Far  off  retreated  to  their  field  of  shame." 

And  now  Dunois  —  for  he  had  seen  tlie  camp 
Well-order'd  — cnter'd.  "  One  night  more  in  peace 
England  shall  rest,"  he  cried,  "  ere  yet  the  storm 
Burst  on  her  guilty  head  !  then  their  proud  vaunts 
Forgotten,  or  remember'd  to  their  shame. 
Vainly  her  chiefs  shall  curse  the  hour  when  first 
They  pitch'd  their  tents  round  Orleans." 

"  Of  that  siege," 
The  Maid  of  Arc  replied,  "  gladly  I  hear 

The  detail.     Isabel,  proceed  !  for  soon 
Destined  to  rescue  this  devoted  town, 
The  tale  of  all  the  ills  she  hath  endured 
1  listen,  sorrowing  for  the  past,  and  feel 
Joy  and  contentment  in  the  merciful  task 
For  which  1  am  sent  forth." 

Thus  spake  the  maid. 
And  Isabel  pursued.     "  And  now  more  near 
The  hostile  host  advancing  pitch  their  tents. 
Unnumber'd  streamers  wave,  and  clamorous  shouts. 
Anticipating  conquest,  rend  the  air 
Witli  universal  uproar.     From  their  camp 
A  herald  came ;  his  garb  emblazon'd  o'er 
With  leopards  and  the  lilies  of  our  realm  — 
Foul  shame  to  France  !     The  summons  of  the  foe 
He  brought." 

The  Bastard  interrupting  cried, 
"  I  was  with  Gaucour  and  the  assembled  chiefs, 
When  by  his  office  privileged  and  proud 
That  herald  spake,  as  certain  of  success 
As  he  had  made  a  league  with  Victory. 
'  Nobles  of  France  rebellious  !  from  tlie  chief 
Of  yon  victorious  host,  the  mighty  Earl 
Of  Salisbury,  now  there  in  place  of  him 
Your  Regent  John  of  Bedford  :  in  his  name 
I  come,  and  in  our  sovereign  Lord  the  King's, 
Henry.     Ye  know  full  well  our  master's  claim, 
Incontrovertible  to  this  good  realm. 
By  right  descent,  and  solemnly  confirm'd 
By  your  great  monarch  and  our  mighty  king 
Fifth  Henry,  in  the  treaty  ratified 
At  Troyes,^'  wherein  your  monarch  did  disclaim 
All  future  right  and  title  to  this  crown. 
His  own  exempted,  for  his  son  and  heirs 
Down  to  the  end  of  time.     This  sign'd  and  seal'd 
At  the  holy  altar,  and  by  nuptial  knot 
Of  Henry  and  your  princess,  gives  the  realm, 
Charles  dead  and  Henry,  to  his  infant  son 
Henry  of  Windsor.     Who  then  dares  oppose 
My  master's  title,  in  the  face  of  God, 
Of  wilful  perjury,  most  atrocious  crime. 
Stands  guilty,  and  of  flat  rebellion  'gainst 
The  Lord's  anointed.     He,  at  Paris  crown'd 
With  loud  acclaim  of  duteous  mtiltitudes. 
Thus  speaks  by  me.     Deliver  up  your  town 
To  Salisbury,  and  yield  yourselves  and  arms, 
So  shall  your  lives  be  safe  :  and  such  his  grace, 
If  of  your  free  accord  to  him  you  pay 
Due  homage  as  your  sovereign  Lord  and  King, 
Your  rich  estates,  your  houses  sliall  be  safe, 
And  you  in  favor  stand,  as  is  the  Duke, 
Philip"  of  Burgundy.     But  —  mark  me  well ! 
If,  obstinately  wilful,  you  persist 
To  scorn  his  proffer'd  mercy,  not  one  stone 
Upon  another  of  this  wretched  town 
Shall  then  be  left ;  and  when  the  English  host 
Triumphant  in  the  dust  have  trod  the  towers 
Of  Orleans,  who  survive  the  dreadful  war 
Shall  die  like  traitors  by  the  hangman's  hand. 
Ye  men  of  France,  remember  Caen  and  Roan  ! ' 

"  He  ceased  :  nor  Gaucour  for  amoment  paused 
To  form  reply. 

" '  Herald  !  to  all  thy  vaunts 
Of  English  sovereignty  let  this  suffice 

BOOK    V. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


For  answer :  France  will  only  own  as  King 
Her  own  legitimate  Lord.     On  Charles's  brow, 
Traiisnillleii  tliroiiirli  a  louir  and  good  descent, 
The  croun  remains.     We  know  no  homage  due 
To  English  robbers,  and  disclaim  the  peace 
Inglorious  made  at  Troyes  by  factious  men 
Hostile  to  France.     Thy  master's  proti'er'd  grace 
Meets  the  contempt  it  merits.     Herald,  yes, 
Be  sure  we  shall  remember  Caen  and  Roan  ' 
Go  tell  the  miirhty  Earl  of  Salisbury, 
That  as  like  Blanchard,  Gaucour  dares  his  power, 
Like  Blanchard,  he  can  brave  his  cruelty, 
And  triumph  by  enduring.     Speak  1  well, 
Ye  men  of  Orleans  .'  ' 

'■  iSever  did  1  hear 
A  shout  so  universal  as  ensued 
Of  approbation.     The  assembled  host 
As  with  one  voice  pour'd  forth  their  loyalty. 
And  struck  their  sounding  shields  ;  and  walls  and 

Echoed  the  loud  uproar.     The  herald  went. 
The  work  of  war  began." 

"A  fearful  scene," 
Cried  Isabel.     "  The  iron  storm  of  death 
Clash'd  in  the  sky  ;  the  mighty  engines  hurl'd 
Huge   stones,  which  shook  the  ground  where'er 

they  fell. 
Then  was  there  heard  at  once  the  clang  of  arms, 
The  thundering  cannons,  and  the  soldier's  shout. 
The  female's  shriek,  the  aflfrighted  infant's  cry, 
The  groan  of  death,  —  discord  of  dreadful  sounds 
That  jarr'd  the  soul. 

"  Nor  while  the  encircling  foe 
Leaguer'd  the  walls  of  Orleans,  idly  slept 
Our  friends  :  for  winning  down  the  Loire  its  way 
The  frequent  vessel  with  provision  fraught. 
And  men,  and  all  the  artillery  of  death, 
Cheer'd  us  with  welcome  succor.     At  the  bridge 
These  safely  landed  mock'd  the  foeman's  force. 
This  to  prevent,  Salisbury,  their  watchful  chief,''- 
A  mighty  work  prepares.     Around  our  walls, 
Encircling  walls  he  builds,  surrounding  thus 
The  city.     Firm'd  with  massicst  buttresses, 
At  equal  distance,  sixty  forts  protect 
The  English  lines.     But  chief  where  in  the  town 
The  six  great  avenues  meet  in  the  midst,** 
Six  castles  there  he  rear'd  impregnable, 
With  deep-dug  moats  and  bridges  drawn  aloft, 
Where  over  the  strong  gate  suspended  hung 
The  dread  portcullis.     Thence  the  gunner's  eye 
From  his  safe  shelter  could  with  ease  survey 
Intended  sally,  or  approaching  aid. 
And  point  destruction. 

"  It  were  long  to  tell. 
And  tedious,  how  in  many  a  bold  assault 
The  men  of  Orleans  sallied  on  their  foes  ; 
How  after  difficult  fight  the  enemy 
Possess'd  tlieTournelles,^'  and  the  embattled  tower 
That  shadows  from  the  bridge  the  subject  Loire ; 
Though  numbering  now   three    thousand    daring 

Frequent  and  fierce  the  garrison  ropell'd 
Their  far  outnumbering  foes.     From  every  aid 
Included,  they  in  Orleans  groan'd  beneath 
All  ills  accumulate.     The  shatter'd  roofs 

AUow'd  the  dews  of  night  free  passage  there  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  the  ponderous  stone. 
Ruining  where'er  it  fell,  with  hideous  crash 
Came  like  an  earthquake,"' startling  from  his  sleep 
The  affrighted  soldier.     From  the  brazen  slings 
The  wild-fire   balls   hiss'd  through  the   midnight 

And  often  their  huge  engines  cast  among  us 
The  dead  and  loathsome  cattle  of  their  camp. 
As  though  our  enemies,  to  their  deadly  league 
Forcing  the  common  air,  would  make  us  breathe 
Poisonous  pollution.^'     Through  the  streets  were 

The  frequent  fire,  and  heaps  of  dead,  in  haste 
Piled  up  and  streaming  to  infected  Heaven. 
For  ever  the  incessant  storm  of  death 
Pours  down,  and  crowded  fn  unwholesome  vaults* 
The  wretched  females  hide,  not  idle  there, 
Wasting  the  hours  in  tears,  but  all  employ 'd, 
Or  to  provide  the  hungry  soldier's  meal. 
Or  tear  their  garments  to  bind  up  his  wounds  : 
A  sad  equality  of  wretchedness  I 

"  Now  came  the  worst  of  ills,  for  Famine  came  : 
The  provident  hand  deals  out  its  scanty  dole, 
Yielding  so  little  a  supply  to  life 
As  but  protracted  death.     The  loathliest  food 
Hunted  with  eager  eye  and  dainty  deem'd, 
The  dog  is  slain,  that  at  his  master's  feet 
Howling  with  hunger  lay  ;  with  jealous  fear. 
Hating  a  rival's  look,  the  husband  hides 
His  miserable  meal ;  the  famish'd  babe 
Clings  closely  to  his  dying  mother's  breast; 
And  —  horrible  to  tell !  —  where,  thrown  aside, 
There  lay  unburied  in  the  open  streets 
Huge  heaps  of  carcasses,  the  soldier  stands 
Eager  to  mark  the  carrion  crow  for  food.^ 

"  O    peaceful    scenes   of   childhood !    pleasant 
fields  I 
Haunts  of  mine  infancy,  where  I  have  stray'd 
Tracing  the  brook  along  its  winding  way. 
Or  pluck'd  the  primrose,  or  with  giddy  speed 
Chased  the  gay  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower ! 

0  days  in  vain  remember'd  !  how  my  soul. 
Sick  with  calamity,  and  the  sore  ills 

Of  hunger,  dwelt  on  you  and  on  my  home  ! 
Thinking  of  you  amid  the  waste  of  war, 

1  could  in  bitterness  have  cursed  the  great 
Who  made  me  what  I  was,  a  helpless  one, 
Orphan'd,  and  wanting  bread  !  " 

"  And  be  they  curst !  " 
Conrade  exclaim'd,  his  dark  eye  flashing  rage  ; 
"  And   be   they  curst !    O   groves  and  woodland 

How  blest  indeed  were  you,  if  the  iron  rod 
Should  one  day  from  Oppression's  hand  be  wrench'd 
By  everlasting  Justice  !     Come  that  hour, 
When  in  the  Sun  the  Angel  of  the  Lord"* 
Shall  stand  and  cry  to  all  the  fowls  of  Heaven, 
'  Gather  ye  to  the  supper  of  your  God, 
That  ye  may  eat  the  flesh  of  mighty  men. 
Of  captains,  and  of  kings  1 '    Then  shall  be  peace." 

"And  now  lest  all  should  perish,"  she  pursued, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    VI. 

The  women  and  the  infirm  must  from  the  town 
Go  forth  and  seek  their  fate. 

"  I  will  not  now 
Recall  the  moment,  when  on  niy  poor  Francis 
With  a  long  look  I  hung.     At  dead  of  night, 
Made  mute  by  fear,  we  mount  the  secret  bark, 
And  glide  adown  the  stream  with  silent  oars : 
Thus  thrown  U])on  the  mercy  of  mankind, 
I  wandered  reckless  where,  till  wearied  out, 
And  cold  at  heart,  I  laid  me  down  to  die  ; 
So  by  tiiis  warrior  found.     Plim  I  had  known 
And  loved,  for  all  loved  Conrade   who  had  known 

him ; 
Nor  did  1  feel  so  pressing  the  hard  hand 
Of  want  in  Orleans,  ere  he  parted  thence 
On  perilous  envoy.     For  of  his  small  fare  — " 

"  Of  this  enough,"  said  Conrade.   "  Holy  Maid  ! 
One  duty  yet  awaits  me  to  perform. 
Orleans  her  envoy  sent  me,  to  demand 
Aid  from  her  idle  sovereign.     Willingly 
Did  I  achieve  the  hazardous  enterprise. 
For  rumor  had  already  made  me  fear 
The  ill  that  hath  fallen  on  me.     It  remains, 
Ere  I  do  banish  me  from  human  kind, 
That  1  reiinter  Orleans,  and  announce 
Thy  march.     'Tis  night,  and  hark !  how  dead  a 

silence ' 
Fit  hour  to  tread  so  perilous  a  path  !  " 

So  saying,  Conrade  from  the  tent  went  forth. 


The  night  was  calm,  and  many  a  moving  cloud 
Shadow'd  the  moon.     Along  the  forest  glade 
With  swift  foot  Conrade  past,  and  now  had  reach'd 
The  plain,  where  whilome  by  the  pleasant  Loire, 
Cheer'd  with  the  song,  the  rustics  had  beheld 
The  day  go  down  upon  their  merriment : 
No  song  of  peace  now  echoed  on  its  banks. 
There  tents  were  pitch'd,  and  there  the  sentinel, 
Slow  pacing  on  his  sullen  rounds,  beheld 
The  frequent  corse  roll  down  the  tainted  stream. 
Conrade  with  wider  sweep  pursued  his  way. 
Shunning  the  camp,  now  hush'd  in  sleep  and  still. 
And  now  no  sound  was  heard  save  of  the  Loire, 
Murmuring  along.     The  noise  of  coming  feet 
Alarm'd  him ;  nearer  drew  the  rapid  steps 
As  of  pursuit ;  anon  —  the  clash  of  arms  ! 
That  instant  breaking  through  a  rifted  cloud 
The   moonlight   show'd,   where    two   with   force 

Trest  on  a  single  foe,  who,  warding  still 
Their  swords,  retreated  in  unequal  fight. 
As  he  would  make  the  city.     Hastening 
With  timely  help  to  save  him,  Conrade  sped. 
One  with  an  unexpected  stroke  he  slew ; 
The  other  fled  :  "  Now  let  us  speed  our  best, 
Frenchman  !  "  he  cried.     On  to  the  Loire  they  ran. 
And  making  way  with  practised  arms  across, 
Ere  long  in  safety  gain'd  the  opposite  shore. 

"  Whence  art  thou?"  cried  the  warrior;  "and 
on  what 
Commission'd .' " 

"  Is  it  not  the  voice  of  Conrade .' ' 
Francis  replied  ;  "  and  dost  thou  bring  to  us 
Tidings  of  succor  .'  oh  !  that  it  had  come 
A  few  hours  earlier !  Isabel  is  gone  I  " 

"  Nay,  she  is  safe,"  cried  Conrade  ;  "  her  I  found 
Bewilder'd  in  the  forest,  and  consign'd  her 
To  the  protection  of  the  holy  Maid, 
Whom  Heaven  hatli  sent  to  rescue  us.     Now  say 
Wherefore  alone .'     A  fugitive  from  Orleans, 
Or  sent  on  dangerous  service  from  the  town  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  food  in  Orleans,"  he  replied, 
"  Scarce    a  meal    more.     The    assembled   chiefs 

If  tliou  shouldst  bring  no  tidings  of  near  aid. 
To  cut  their  way  to  safety,  or  by  death 
Prevent  the  pang  of  famine.""     One  they  sought. 
Who,  venturing  to  the  English  lines,  should  spy 
Where  best  to  venture  on  this  desperate  chance, 
And  I,  believing  all  I  loved  was  lost, 
Offer'd  myself" 

So  saying,  they  approach'd 
The  gate.     The  sentinel,  soon  as  he  heard 
Thitherward  footsteps,  with  uplifted  lance 
Challenged  the  darkling  travellers.     At  their  voice 
He  drew  the  strong  bolts  back,  and  cautiously 
Open'd  the  wicket.     To  the  careful  chiefs 
Who  sate  in  midnight  council,  they  were  led, 
And  Conrade  thus  address'd  them  : 

"  Sirs,  the  Lord, 
In  this  our  utmost  need,  hath  sent  us  aid. 
A  holy  Maid  hath  been  raised  up  by  Heaven  ; 
Her  mission  is  by  miracles  confirm'd. 
And  hither,  with  twelve  hundred  chosen  men. 
Led  by  Dunois,  she  comes.     I  am  myself 
A  witness  to  the  truth  of  what  I  tell ; 
And  by  to-morrow's  noon,  before  these  walls 
Her  banner  will  be  seen." 

Thereat  the  chiefs 
Were  fiU'd  with  wonder  and  with  joy,  by  doubt 
Little  repress'd.     "  Open  the  granaries  !  " 
Xaintrailles  exclaim'd  ;  "  give  we  to  all  the  host 
With  hand  unsparing  now  a  plenteous  meal ; 
To-morrow  we  are  safe  I  for  Heaven  all-just 
Hath  seen  our  sufferings  and  decreed  their  end. 
Let  the  glad  tidings  echo  through  the  town  ! 
God  is  with  us  !  " 

"  Be  not  too  confident," 
Graville  replied,  "  in  this  miraculous  aid. 
Some  frantic  woman  this,  who  gives  belief 
To  idle  dreams,  and  with  her  madness  then 
Infects  the  simple  !     That  Dunois  is  there. 
Leading  in  arms  twelve  hundred  chosen  men. 
Affords  a  better  hope  ;  yet  lavish  not 
Our  stores,  lest  in  the  enterprise  he  fail. 
And  Orleans  then  be  fain  to  bear  the  yoke 
Of  England!" 

"  Chief!  I  tell  thee,"  Conrade  cried, 
"  I  did  myself  behold  the  sepulchre. 
Fulfilling  what  she  spake,  give  up  those  arms 
Which  surely  for  no  common  end  the  grave 

BOOK    VI. 

JOAN    OF   ARC, 


Through  many  an  age  hath  held  inviolate. 
She  is  tlic  I'rophctess  of  the  Most  High, 
And  will  deliver  Orleans  I  " 

Gaucour  then, 
"  Be  it  as  tliou  hast  said.     For  I  must  tliink, 
That  surely  to  no  vulgar  talc  tliesc  chiefs 
Would  yield  a  light  belief;  and  our  poor  stores 
Must  speedily,  ye  know,  be  clean  consumed. 
Spread  then  the  joyl'ul  tidings  through  tlie  troops 
That  God  hath  to  deliver  the  oppress'd, 
As  in  old  time,  raised  up  a  Prophetess, 
And  the  belief  itself  will  make  them  fight 
With  irresistible  courage." 

Thus  the  chief. 
And  what  he  said  seem'd  good.  The  men  of  Orleans, 
Long  by  tlicir  foemcn  bay'd,  such  transport  felt. 
As  when  the  Mexicans,'"'-  with  eager  eye 
Gazing  to  Huixaclitla's  distant  top. 
On  that  last  night,  doubtful  if  ever  morn 
Again  shall  cheer  thein,  mark  the  mystic  fire 
Flame  on  the  breast  of  some  brave  prisoner, 
A  dreadful  altar.     As  they  see  the  blaze 
Beaming  on  Iztapalapan's  near  towers. 
Or  on  Tezcuco's  calmy  lake  flash'd  far. 
Songs  of  thanksgiving  and  the  shout  of  joy 
Wake  the  loud  echo  ;  the  glad  husband  tears 
The  mantling  aloe  from  his  consort's  face. 
And  children,  now  deliver'd  from  the  dread 
Of  everlasting  darkness,  look  abroad. 
Hail  the  good  omen,  and  expect  the  sun 
Uninjur'd  still  to  run  his  flaming  race. 

While  thus  in  Orleans  hope  had  banished  sleep, 
The  Maiden's  host  perform'd  their  evening  prayer, 
And  in  the  forest  took  their  rest  secure. 
And  now  the  morning  came.     At  earliest  dawn 
Lightly  upstarting-,  and  bcdight  in  arms, 
The  Bastard  moved  along,  with  provident  eye 
Marshalling  the  troops.     All   high   in    hope    they 

march ; 
And  now  the  sun  shot  from  the  southern  sky 
His  noontide  radiance,  when  afar  they  hear 
The  hum  of  men,  and  see  the  distant  towers 
Of  Orleans,  and  the  bulwarks  of  the  foe, 
And  many  a  streamer  wantoning  in  air. 
These  as  they  saw  and  thought  of  all  the  ills 
Their  brethren  had  endured,  closely  pent  there 
For  many  a  month,  such  ardor  for  the  fight 
Burnt  in  each  bosom,  as  young  Ali  felt 
Then  when  Mohammed  of  the  assembled  tribe 
Ask'd  who  would  be  his  Vizir.     Fierce  in  faith, 
Forth  from  the  race  of  Hashem  stept  the  youth, 
"  Prophet  of  God  !  lo  —  I  will  be  tlie  man  !  " 
And  well  did  Ali  merit  that  high  post, 
Victorious  upon  Beder's  fertile  vale. 
And  on  mount  Ohud,  and  before  tlie  walls 
Of  Chaibar,  when  down-cleaving  to  the  chest 
His  giant  foe,  he  grasp'd  the  massy  gate. 
Shook  with  strong  arm  and  tore  it  from  the  fort, 
And  lifted  it  in  air,  portentous  shield  ! 

"Behold  tlie  towers  of  Orleans,"  cried  Dunois, 
"  Lo  !  this  the  vale  where  on  the  banks  of  Loire, 
Of  yore,  at  close  of  day  the  rustic  band 
Danced  to  the  roundelay.     In  younger  years 

As  oft  I  glided  down  the  silver  stream, 
Frequent  upon  the  lifted  oar  I  paused. 
Listening  the  sound  of  far-off  merriment. 
There  wave  tlie  hostile  banners  !  martial  Maid, 
Give  thou  tiie  signal !  — let  us  fall  upon 
These  merciless  invaders,  who  have  sack'd 
Village  and  town,  and  made  the  handet  haunts 
Silent,  or  hearing  but  the  widow's  groan. 
Give  but  the  signal,  Maiden  !  " 

Her  dark  eye 
Fix'd  sadly  on  the  foe,  the  holy  Maid 
Answer'd  liim  ;  "  Ere  the  avenging  sword  be  drawn, 
And  slaughter  be  let  loose,  befits  us  send 
Some  peaceful  messenger,  who  shall  iriake  known 
The  will  of  Heaven :  so  timely  warn'd,  our  foes 
Haply  may  yet  repent,  and  quit  in  peace 
Besieged  Orleans,  for  I  fain  would  spare 
The  bloody  price  of  victory." 

So  she  said  ; 
And  as  she  spake,  a  soldier  from  the  ranks 
Came  forward.     "  I  will  be  thy  messenger, 

0  Proplietess  I  and  to  the  English  camp 
Will  bear  thy  bidding." 

"  Go,"  the  Virgin  cried; 
"  Say  to  the  Lord  of  Salisbury,  and  the  chiefs 
Of  England,  Suffolk,  Fastolfte,  Talbot,  Scales, 
Invaders  of  the  country,  say,  thus  says 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  :  '  With  your  troops  retire 
In  peace.     Of  every  captured  town  the  keys 
Restore  to  Charles  ;  so  bloodless  you  may  seek 
Your  native  island  ;  for  the  God  of  Hosts 
Thus  hath  decreed.     To  Charles  the  rightful  heir. 
By  long  descent  and  by  the  willing  choice 
Of  duteous  subjects,  hath  the  Lord  assign'd 
The  kingdom.     In  His  name  the  Virgin  comes 
Arm'd  with  the  sword,  yet  not  of  mercy  void. 
Depart  in  peace  :  for  ere  the  morrow  dawns, 
Victorious  upon  yonder  wall  shall  wave 
Her  holy  banner.'  "     To  the  English  camp 
Fearless  the  herald  went. 

At  mid-day  meal, 
With  all  the  dissonance  of  boisterous  mirth, 
The  British  chiefs  caroused  and  quafTd  the  bowl. 
When  by  the  sentinel  conducted  there 
The  Maiden's  herald  came. 

'■  Chiefs,"  he  began, 
"  Salisbury,  and  ye  the  representatives 
Of  the  English  King,  usurper  of  this  realm, 
To  ye  the  leaders  of  the  English  host 

1  come,  no  welcome  messenger.     Thus  saith 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  :  'With  your  troops  retire 
In  peace.     Of  every  captured  town  the  keys 
Restore  to  Charles ;  so  bloodless  you  may  seek 
Your  native  island;  for  the  God  of  Hosts 

Thus  hath  decreed.     To  Charles  the  rightful  heir, 
By  long  descent  and  by  the  willing  choice 
Of  duteous  subjects,  hath  the  Lord  assign'd 
The  kingdom.     In  His  name  the  Virgin  comes, 
Arm'd  with  the  sword,  yet  not  of  mercy  void. 
Depart  in  peace  :  for  ere  the  morrow  dawns, 
Victorious  upon  j'onder  wall  shall  wave 
Her  holy  banner.'  " 

Wonder  made  a  pause ; 
Tothisalaugii  succeeds.  "  What !  "  FastolfFe  cried, 
"  A  virgin  warrior  hath  vour  monarch  sent 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    VI. 

To  save  devoted  Orleans  ?     By  the  rood, 
1  thank  Ills  grace.     If  she  be  young  and  fair, 
No  worthless  prize,  my  lords  !  Go,  tell  your  Maid, 
Joyful  wo  wait  her  coming." 

There  was  one 
Among  the  English  chiefs  who  had  grown  old 
In  arms,  yet  had  not  age  unnerved  his  limbs, 
But  from  the  flexile  nimbleness  of  youth 
To  unyielding  stiffness  braced  them.    One  who  saw 
Him  seated  at  the  board,  might  well  have  deem'd 
That  Talbot  with  his  whole  collected  might 
Wielded  the  sword  in  war,  for  on  his  neck 
The  veins  were  full,'"-'  and  every  muscle  bore 
Th(!  character  of  strength.     He  his  stern  eye 
Fix'd  on  the  herald,  and  before  he  spake 
His  silence  threaten'd.'"* 

"  Get  thee  gone  !  "  exclaim'd 
The  indignant  chief:  "away  !  nor  think  to  scare 
With  girlish  phantasies  the  English  host 
That  scorns  your  bravest  warriors.  Hie  thee  thence, 
And  tell  this  girl  she  may  expect  to  meet 
The  mockery  of  the  camp  !  " 

"  Nay,  scare  her  not," 
Replied  their  chief:  "  go,  tell  this  Maid  of  Orleans, 
That  Salisbury  longs  to  meet  her  in  the  fight. 
Nor  let  her  fear  that  cords  or  iron  chains 
Shall  gall  her  tender  limbs  ;  for  1  myself 

Will  be  her  prison,  and " 

"  Contemptuous  man ! 
No  more  I  "  the  herald  cried,  as  to  his  cheek 
Rush'd  the  red  anger  :  "  bearing  words  of  peace 
And  timely  warning  came  1  to  your  camp  ; 
And  here  have  been  with  insolent  ribaldry 
Received.      Bear    witness,    chieftains !    that    the 

Free  from  blood-guiltiness,  shall  meet  the  war." 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  "  cried  Suffolk,  and  his  eye 
Grew  fierce  and  wrath-inflamed  :  "  What  fool  art 

Who  at  this  woman's  bidding  comest  to  brave 
The  host  of  England  ?  Thou  shalt  have  thy  meed  !  " 
Then  turning  to  the  sentinel  he  cried, 
"  Prepare  a  stake  !  and  let  the  men  of  Orleans, 
And  let  this  woman  who  believes  her  name 
May  privilege  her  herald,  see  the  fire 
Consume  him.'°^    Plant  a  stake  1  for  by  my  God 
He  shall  be  kalendared  of  this  new  faith 
First  martyr." 

As  he  spake,  a  sudden  flush 
Came  o'er  the  herald's  cheek,  and  his  heart  beat 
With  quicker  action;  but  the  sudden  flush. 
Nature's  instinctive  impulse,  faded  soon 
To  such  a  steady  hue  as  spake  the  soul 
Roused  up  with  all  its  powers,  and  unsubdued, 
And    strengthen'd    for   endurance.    Tlirouo-h   the 

Soon  as  the  tidings  spread,  a  shout  arose, 
A  hideous  shout,  more  savage  than  the  howl 
Of  midnight  wolves,  around  him  as  they  throno-'d, 
To  gaze  upon  their  victim.     He  pass'd  on  ; 
/Vnd  as  they  led  him  to  the  appointed  place 
Look'd  round,  as  though  forgetful  of  himself, 
And  cried  aloud,  "  Oh  !  woe  it  is  to  think 
So  many  men  shall  never  see  the  sun 

Go  down  !     Ye  Englisli  mothers,  mourn  ye  now  ! 
Daughters  of  England,  weep  !  for,  hard  of  heart. 
Still  your  mad  leaders  urge  this  impious  war  ; 
And  for  their  folly  and  their  wickedness, 
Your  sons,  your  husbands,  by  the  sword  must  fall. 
Long-sufft-ring  is  the  Lord,  and  slow  to  wrath. 
But  heavy  are  his  judgments  !  " 

He  who  spake 
Was  young  and  comely  ;  had  his  cheek  been  pale 
With  dread,  and  had  his  eye  look'd  fearl'uUy, 
Sure  he  had  won  compassion ;  but  the  blood 
Gave  now  a  livelier  meaning  to  his  cheek. 
As  witli  a  prophet's  look  and  prophet's  voice 
He  raised  his  ominous  warning :  they  who  heard 
Wonder'd,  and  they  who  rear'd  the  stake  perform'd 
With  half-unwilling  liands  their  slacken'd  toil, 
And  doubted  what  might  follow. 

Not  unseen 
Rear'd  they  the  stake,  and  piled  around  the  wood; 
In  sight  of  Orleans  and  the  Maiden's  host,'°^ 
Had  Suff"olk's  arrogant  fierceness  bade  the  work 
Of  death  be  done.     The  Maiden's  host  beheld  ; 
At  once  in  eager  wrath  they  raised  the  loud 
And  general  clamor,  "  Lead  us  to  the  foe  !  " 
"  Not  upon  us,  O  God  !  "  the  Maid  exclaim'd, 
"  Not  upon  us  cry  out  the  innocent  blood  !  " 
And  bade  the  signal  sound.     In  the  English  camp 
The  clarion  and  the  trumpet's  blare  was  heard ; 
In  haste  they  seize  their  arms,  in  haste  they  form. 
Some  by  bold  words  seeking  to  hide  their  fear 
Even  from  themselves,  some  silently  in  prayer. 
For  much  their  hearts  misgave  them. 

But  the  rage 
Of   Suffolk    swell'd   within    him.     "  Speed  your 

work ! ' ' 
Exclaim'd  the  injurious  earl ;  "  kindle  the  pile. 
That  France  may  see  the  fire,  and  in  defeat 
Feel  aggravated  shame  I ' ' 

And  now  they  bound 
The  herald  to  the  stake  :  he  cried  aloud. 
And  fix'd  his  eye  on  Sufl"olk,  "  Let  not  him 
Who  girdeth  on  his  harness  boast  himself 
As  he  that  puts  it  oft'!  ""  They  come;  they  come  ! 
God  and  the  Maid !  " 

The  host  of  France  approach'd. 
And  Suff'olk  eagerly  beheld  the  fire 
Brought  near  the  pile ;  when  suddenly  a  shout 
Toward  Orleans  call'd  his  eye,  and  thence  he  saw 
A  man-at-arms  upon  a  barded  steed 
Come  thundering  on. 

As  when  Chederles  comes  '"* 
To  aid  the  Moslem  on  his  deathless  horse, 
Swaying  the  sword  with  such  resistless  arm, 
Such  mightiest  force,  as  he  had  newly  quaff"d 
The  hidden  waters  of  eternal  youth. 
Till  with  the  copious  draught  of  life  and  strength 
Inebriate  ;  such,  fo  fierce,  so  terrible, 
Came  Conrade  through  the  camp.     Aright,  alefl, 
The  affrighted  foemen  scatter  from  his  spear; 
Onward  he  comes,  and  now  the  circling  throng 
Fly  from  the  stake,  and  now  he  checks  his  course. 
And  cuts  the  herald's  bonds,  and  bids  him  live 
To  arm,  and  fight,  and  conquer. 

"Haste  thee  hence 
To  Orleans,"  cried  the  warrior.     "Tell  the  chiefs 

BOOK    VI. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


riiero  is  confusion  in  the  English  camp. 

Bill  them  come  forth."     On  Conrade's  steed  the 

Leapt  up,  and  hastened  onward,     lie  the  while 
Turu'd  to  the  war. 

Like  two  conflicting  cloud.s, 
Pregnant  with  thunder,  moved  the  hostile  hosts. 
Then  man  met  man,  then  on  the  batter'd  shield 
Rung  the  loud  lance,  and  through  the  darken'd  sky 
Kast  It'll  the  arrowy  storm.     Amid  his  foes 
The  Bastard's  arm  dealt  irresistibly 
The  strokes  of  death;  and  by  his  side  the  Maid 
Led  the  fierce  fight,  the  Maid,  though  all  unused 
To  such  rude  conflict,  now  inspired  by  Heaven, 
Flashing  her  flamy  falchion  through  the  troops, 
That  like  the  thunderbolt,  where'er  it  fell, 
Scatter'd  the  trembling  ranks.     The  Saracen, 
Though  arm'd  from  Cashbin  or  Damascus,  wields 
A  w^eaker  sword ;  nor  might  that  magic  blade 
Compare  with  this,  which  Oriana  saw 
Flame  in  the  ruffian  Ardans  robber  hand, 
Wlien,  sick  and  cold  as  death,  she  turn'd  away 
Her  dizzy  eyes,  lest  they  should  see  the  fall 
Of  her  own  Amadis.     Nor  plated  shield. 
Nor  the  strong  hauberk,  nor  the  crested  casque, 
Stay  that  descending  sword.     Dreadful  she  moved 
Like  as  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  went  forth 
And  smote  his  army,  when  the  As.'iyrlan  king. 
Haughty  of  Hamath  and  Sepharvaim  lallen. 
Blasphemed  the  God  of  Israel. 

Yet  the  fight 
Hung  doubtful,  where  exampling  hardiest  deeds, 
Salisbury  struck  dou  n  the  foe,  and  Fastolffe  strove, 
And  in  the  hottest  doings  of  the  war 
Towered  Talbot.     He,  remembering  the  past  day 
When  from  his  name  the  affrighted  sons  of  France 
Fled  trembling,  all  astonish'd  at  their  force 
And  wontless  valor,  rages  round  the  field 
Dreadful  in  anger ;  yet  in  every  man 
Meeting  a  foe  fearless,  and  in  the  faith 
Of  Heaven's  assistance  firm. 

The  clang  of  arms 
Reaches  the  walls  of  Orleans.    For  the  war 
Prepared,  and  confident  of  victory, 
Forth  speed  the  troops.     Not  when  afar  exhaled 
The  hungry  raven  snuffs  the  steam  of  blood 
That  from  some  carcass-cover' d  field  of  fame 
Taints  the  pure  air,  flies  he  more  eagerly 
To  feed  upon  the  slain,  than  the  Orleanites, 
Impatient  now  for  many  an  ill  endured 
In  the  long  siege,  to  wreak  upon  their  foes 
Due  vengeance.    Then  more  fearful  grew  the  fray  ; 
The  swords  that  late  flash'd  to  the  evening  sun'"* 
Now  quench'd  in  blood  their  radiance. 

O'er  the  host 
Howl'd  a  deep  wind  that  ominous  of  storms 
RoU'd  on  the  lurid  clouds.     The  blacken'd  night 
Frown'd,  and  the  thunder  from  the  troubled  sky 
Roar'd    hollow.      Javelins    clasli'd   and   bucklers 

Shield  prest  on  shield ;  loud  on  the  helmet  jarr'd 
The  ponderous  battle-axe ;  the  frequent  groan 
Of  death  commingling  with  the  storm  was  heard, 
And  the  shrill  shriek  of  fear.     Even  such  a  storm 
Before  the  walls  of  Chartres  quell'd  the  pride 

Of  the  third  Edward,  when  the  heavy  hail 
Smote  down  his  soldiers,  and  the  conqueror  heard 
God  in  the  tempest,  and  remembered  then 
With  a  remorseful  sense  of  Christian  fear 
What  misery  he  had  caused,  and  in  the  name 
Of  blessed  Mary  vowed  a  vow  of  peace."" 

Lo  !  where  the  holy  banner  waved  aloft, 
The  lambent  lightnings  play.     Irradiate  round. 
As  vv'ith  a  blaze  of  glory,  o'er  the  field 
It  strcam'd  miraculous  splendor.  Then  their  hearts 
Sunk,  and  the  English  trembled;  with  such  fear 
Possess'd,  as  when  the  Canaanites  beheld 
The  sun  stand  still  on  Gibeon,  at  the  voice 
Of  that  king-conquering  warrior,  he  who  smote 
The  country  of  the  hills,  and  of  the  south, 
From  Baal-gad  to  Halak.  and  their  chiefs. 
Even  as  the  Lord  commanded.     Swift  they  fled 
From  that  portentous  banner,  and  the  sword 
Of  France ;  though  Talbot  witli  vain  valiancy 
Yet  urged  the  war,  and  stcmm'd  alone  the  tide 
Of  battle.     Even  their  leaders  felt  dismay  ; 
Fastolffe  fled  first,  and  Salisbury  in  the  rout 
Mingled,  and  all  impatient  of  defeat. 
Borne  backward  Talbot  turns.     Then  echoed  loud 
The  cry  of  conquest,  deeper  grew  the  storm, 
And  darkness,  hovering  o'er  on  raven  wing. 
Brooded  the  field  of  death. 

Nor  in  the  camp 
Deem  themselves  safe  the  trembling  fugitives ; 
On  to  the  forts  they  haste.     Bewilder'd  there 
Amid  the  moats  by  fear  and  the  thick  gloom 
Of  more  than  midnight  darkness,  plunge  the  troops, 
Crush'd  by  fast-following  numbers,  who  partake 
The  death  they  give.    As  swol'n  with  vernal  snows 
A  mountain  torrent  hurries  on  its  way, 
Till  at  the  brink  of  some  abrupt  descent 
Arrived,  with  deafening  clamor  down  it  falls, 
Thus  borne  along,  tumultuously  the  troops 
Driven  b}'  the  force  behind  them,  plunge  amid 
The  liquid  death.     Then  rose  the  dreadful  cries 
More  dreadful,  and  the  dash  of  breaking  waters 
That  to  the  passing  lightning  as  they  broke 
Open'd  their  depth. 

Nor  of  the  host  so  late 
Exultant  in  the  pride  of  long  success, 
A  remnant  had  escaped,  had  not  their  chief, 
Slow  as  he  moved  unwilling  from  the  field, 
What  most  might  profit  the  defeated  ranks 
Bethought  him.     He,  when  he  had  gain'd  the  fort 
Named  from  St.  John,  there  kindled  up  on  high 
The  guiding  fire.     Not  unobserved  it  rose  ; 
The  watchful  guards  on  Tournelles,  and  the  pile 
Of  that  proud  city  in  remembrance  fond 
Call'd  London,  light  their  beacons.     Soon  the  fires 
Flame  on  the  summit  of  the  circling  forts, 
Which,  with  their  moats  and  crenellated  walls, 
Included  Orleans.     Far  across  the  plain 
They  cast  a  lurid  splendor  ;  to  the  troops 
Grateful,  as  to  the  way-worn  traveller, 
Wandering  with  parch'd  feet  o'er  Arabian  sands, 
The  far-seen  cistern  ;  he  for  many  a  league 
Travelling  the  trackless  desolate,  wliere  heaved 
With  tempest  swell  the  desert  billows  round, 
Pauses,  and  shudders  at  his  perils  past, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Tlien  wild  with  joy  speeds  on  to  taste  tlie  wave 
So  long  bewa'l'd. 

Swift  as  the  affriirhted  herd 
Scud  o'er  the  plain,  wlion  rattling  thunder-cracks 
Upon  the  bolted  lightning-  follow  close, 
TJio  Enollsh  hasten  to  their  shelterino-  torts. 
Even  there  of  safety  doubtful,  still  apjiall'd 
And  trembling,  as  the  pilgrim  who  by  night 
On  his  way  wilder'd,  to  the  wolf's  deep  howl 
J  tears  the  wood  echo,  when  from  close  pursuit 
Escaped,  the  topmost  branch  of  some  tall  tree 
He  grasps  close  clinging,  still  of  the  wild  beast 
Fearful,  his  teeth  jar,  and  the  cold  sweat  stands 
Upon  his  clajuniy  limbs. 

Nor  now  the  Maid 
Greedy  of  vengeance  presses  the  pursuit. 
She  bids  the  trumpet  of  retreat  resound; 
A  welcome  note  to  the  affrighted  foe 
Ulew  that  loud  blast,  whereat  obediently 
The  French,  though  eager  on  the  invaders'  heads 
To  wreak  their  wrath,  stay  the  victorious  sword. 

Loud  is  the  cry  of  conquest  as  they  turn 
To  Orleans.     There  what  few  to  guard  the  town 
Unwilling  had  remain' d,  haste  forth  to  meet 
The  triumph.     Many  a  blazing  torch  they  held, 
Which  raised  aloft  amid  the  midnight  storm 
Flash'd  far  a  festive  light.     The  Maid  advanced ; 
Deep     through     the    sky    the     hollow    thunders 

Innocuous  lightnings  round  the  hallowed  banner 
"Wrcath'd  their  red  radiance. 

Through  the  city  gate 
Then,  as  the  laden  convoy  pass'd,  was  heard 
The  shout  of  exultation  ;  and  such  joy 
The  men  of  Orleans  at  that  welcome  sight 
Possess'd,  as  when  from  Bactria  late  subdued. 
The  mighty  Macedonian  led  his  troops 
Amid  the  Sogdian  desert,  where  no  stream 
Wastes  on  the  wild  its  fertilizing  waves, 
Fearful  alike  to  pause,  or  to  proceed ; 
Scorch'd  by  the  sun,  that  o'er  their  morning  march 
Steam'd  his  hot  vapors,  heart-subdued  and  faint; 
Such  joy  as  then  they  felt,  when  from  the  heights 
Burst  the  soul-gladdening  sound,  for  thence    was 

The  evening  sun  silvering  the  fertile  vale. 
Where  Oxus  roll'd  below. 

Clamors  of  joy 
Echo  along  the  streets  of  Orleans,  wont 
Long  time  to  hear  the  infant's  feeble  cry, 
The  mother's  frantic  shriek,  or  the  dread  sou.'.d. 
When  from  the  cannon  burst  its  stores  of  death. 
Far  flames  the  fire  of  joy  on  ruin'd  piles 
And  high  lieap'd  carcasses,  whence  scared  away 
P\-om  his  abhorred  meal,  on  clatterinjr  wintr 
Rose  the  night-raven  slow. 

Ill  the  English  forts 
Sad  was  the  scene.     There  all  the  livelong  night 
Steal  in  the  straggling  fugitives ;  as  when 
Past  is  the  storm,  and  o'er  the  azure  sky 
Serenely  shines  the  sun,  with  every  breeze 
The  waving  branches  drop  their  gather'd  rain. 
Renewing  the  remembrance  of  the  storm. 


Strong  were  the  English  forts, '"'  by  daily  toil 
Of  thousands  rear'd  on  high,  when  to  insure 
His  meditated  conquest  Salisbury 
Resolved  from  Orleans  to  shut  out  all  means 
Of  human  succor.     Round  the  city  stretch'd 
Their  line  continuous,  massy  as  the  wall 
Erst  by  the  fearful  Roman  on  the  bounds 
Of  Caledonia  raised,  when  soul-enslaved 
The  race  degenerate  fear'd  the  car-borne  chiefs 
Who  moved  from  Morven  down. 

Broad  battlements 
Crested  the  bulwark,  and  safe  standing  place 
For  archer  or  for  man-at-arms  was  there. 
The  frequent  buttress  at  just  distance  rose 
Declining  from  its  base,  and  sixty  forts 
Seem'd  in  their  strength  to  render  all  secure. 
But  loftier  and  massier  than  the  rest, 
As  though  of  some  large  castle  each  the  keep, 
Stood  six  square  fortresses  with  turrets  flank'd, 
Piles  of  unequall'd  strength,  though  now  deem'd 

"Gainst  puissance  more  than  mortal.    Safelj-  thence 
The  skilful  bowman,  entering  with  his  eye  "^ 
The  city,  might,  himself  the  while  unseen. 
Through  the  long  opening  aim  his  winged  deaths. 
Loire's  waves  diverted  fill'd  the  deep-dug  moat 
Circling  the  whole  ;  a  bulwark  vast  it  was 
As  that  which  round  their  camp  and  stranded  ships 
The  Achaians  raised,  a  common  sepulchre 
Of  thousands  slaughter'd,  and  the   doom'd  death- 
Of  many  a  chief,  when  Priam's  virtuous  son 
Assail'd  them,  then  in  hope,  with  favoring  Jove 

But  cowering  now  amid  their  sheltering  forts 
Trembled  the  invading  host.     Their  leader's  care 
In  anxious  vigilance  prepares  to  ward 
I'he  assault  expected.     Rightly  he  ared 
The  Maid's  intent,  but  vamly  did  he  seek 
To  kindle  in  their  breasts  the  wonted  flame 
Of  valor,  for,  by  prodigies  unmann'd. 
They  wait  the    morn.     The   soldiers'    pride    waf 

gone ; 
The  blood  was  on  their  swords,  their  bucklers  lay 
Defiled  and  unrepair'd,"^  they  sharpen'd  not 
Their  blunted  spears,  the  affrighted  archer's  hand 
Relax'd  not  his  bent  bow.     To  them,  confused 
With  fears  of  unknown  danger,  the  long  night 
Was  dreadful,  but  more  dreadful  dawn'd  the  day 

The  morning  came  ;  the  martial  Maid  arose  ; 
Lovely  in  arms  she  moved.     Around  the  gate, 
Eao-er  again  for  conquest,  throng  the  troops. 
High  tower'd  the  Son  of  Orleans,  in  his  strength 
Poising  the  ponderous  spear.     His  batter'd  shield, 
Witnessing  the  fierce  fray  of  yesternight. 
Hung  on  his  sinewy  arm. 

"  Maiden  of  Arc," 
So  as  he  spake  approaching,  cried  the  chief, 
"  Well  hast  thou  proved  thy  mission,  as  by  words 
And  miracles  attested  when  dismay'd 
The  (Trave  theoloo-ists  dismiss'd  their  doubts. 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


So  in  the  field  of  battle  now  confirni'd. 
You  well-fenced  forts  protect  the  fugitives, 
And  seem  as  in  their  strength  they  niock'd  our  force. 
Yet  must  liiey  fall." 

"  And  fall  they  shall  !  "  replied 
The  Maid  of  Orleans.     "  Ere  the  sun  he  set 
The  lily  on  that  shattered  wall  shall  wave 
Triumphant.  —  Men  of  France  !  ye  have  fought 

On  yon  blood-recking  plain.     Y'our  humbled  foes 
Lurk  trembling  now  behind  their  massy  walls. 
Wolves  that  have  ravaged  the  neglected  flock  ! 
The  Shepherd  —  the  Great  Shepherd  is  arisen  ! 
Y"e  fly  !  yet  shall  not  ye  by  flight  escape 
Ills  vengeance.     Men  of  Orleans  !  it  were  vain 
By  words  to  waken  wrath  within  your  breasts. 
Look    round  !    Your    holy    buildings    and    your 

homes  — 
Ruins  that  choke  the  way  !  your  populous  town  — 
One  open  sepulchre  !  who  is  there  here 
That  does  not  mourn  a  friend,  a  brother  slain, 
A  parent  famished,  —  or  his  dear,  loved  wife 
Torn  from  his  bosom  — outcast  — broken-hearted  — 
Cast  on  the  mercy  of  mankind  .'  " 

She  ceased ; 
A  cry  of  indignation  from  the  host 
Burst  forth,  and  all  impatient  for  the  war 
Demand  the  signal.     These  Dunois  arrays 
In  four  battalions.     Xaintrailles,  tried  in  war, 
Commands  the  first;  Xaintrailles,  who  oftentimes 
Defeated,  oft  a  prisoner,  and  as  oft 
Released  for  ransom,  both  with  friend  and  foe 
Growing  repute  of  active  hardihood. 
And  martial  skill  obtained  ;  so  erst  from  earth 
Antajus  vaunting  in  his  giant  bulk, 
When  graspt  by  force  Herculean,  down  he  fell 
vanquished,  anon  uprose  more  fierce  for  war. 

Gaucour  the  second  battle  led,  true  friend 
And  faithful  servant  of  the  imprison'd  Duke  ; 
In  counsel  provident,  in  action  prompt, 
Collected  always,  always  self-controll'd. 
He  from  the  soldiers'  confidence  and  love 
Prompter  obedience  gain'd,  than  ever  fear 
Forced  from  the  heart  reluctant. 

The  third  band 
Aleni-on  leads.     On  Verneuil's  fatal  field 
The  day  when  Buchan  and  the  Douglas  died, 
Wounded  and  senseless  with  the  loss  of  blood. 
He  fell,  and  tliere  being  found,  was  borne  away 
A  prisoner,  in  the  ills  of  that  defeat 
Participant,  partaking  not  the  shame  : 
But  for  his  rank  and  high  desert,  the  King 
Had  ransomd  him,  doom'd  now  to  meet  the  foe 
With  better  fortune. 

O'er  the  last  presides 
Tiie  bastard  son  of  Orleans,  great  in  arms. 
His  prowess  knew  the  foes,  and  his  fair  fame 
Acknowledged,  since  before  his  stripling  arm 
Fled  Warwick;  Warwick,  he  whose  wide  renown 
Greece  knew,  and  Antioch,  and  the  holy  soil 
Of  Palestine,  since  there  in  arms  he  went 
On  gallant  pilgrimage  ;  yet  by  Dunois 
Baffied,  and  yielding  him  the  conqueror's  praise. 
And  by  his  side  the  martial  Maiden  pass'd, 

Lovely  in  arms,  as  that  Arcadian  boy 
ParthenopoBus,"-'  wlion  the  war  of  beasts 
Disdaining,  lie  to  cope  wilii  men  went  fortli, 
Bearing  the  bow  and  those  Dictajan  shafts 
Diana  gave,  when  she  the  youth's  fair  form 
Saw,  soften'd,  and  forgave  the  mother's  fault. 

Loup's  was  the  nearest  fort.       Here  Gladdis- 

dale  '•« 
Commands  the  English,  who  as  the  enemy 
Moved  to  the  assault,  from  bow  and  arbalist 
Their  shafts  and  quarrels  showered.     Nor  did  they 

Hand-weapons  only  and  hand-engines  here, 
Nor  by  the  arm  alone,  or  bow-string  sped 
The  missile  flew,  but  driven  by  the  strain'd  force 
Of  the  balista,""  in  one  body  spent 
Stay 'd  not ;  through  arms  and  men  it  made  its  way, 
And  leaving  death  behind,  still  held  its  course 
By  many  a  death  unclogg'd.     With  rapid  march 
Onward  the  assailants  came  ;  and  now  they  reach'd 
W'hcre  by  the  bayle's  embattled  wall  "*  in  arms 
The  knights  of  England  stood.     I'here  Poynmgs 

His  lance,  and  Gladdisdale  his  heavy  mace. 
For  the  death-blow  prepared.     Alenc-on  here, 
And  here  the  Bastard  came,  and  by  the  Maid, 
That  daring  man  who  to  the  English  host, 
Then  insolent  of  many  a  conquest  gain'd. 
Had  borne  her  bidding.     A  rude  coat  of  mail, 
Unhosed,  unhooded,  as  of  lowly  line,"" 
He  wore,  though  here,  amid  the  high-born  chiefs 
Preeminent  for  prowess.     On  his  head 
A  black  plume  shadow'd  the  rude-featured  helm.'*''' 
Then  was  the  war  of  men,  when  front  to  front 
They  rear'd  the  hostile  hand,  for  low  the  wall 
Where  an  assailant's  upvi'ard-driven  spear 
Might  reach  his  enemy. 

As  Alenron  moved. 
On  his  crown-crested  helm'-'  with  ponderous  blow 
Fell  Gladdisdale's  huge  mace.     Back  he  recoil'd 
Astounded ;  soon  recovering,  his  sharp  lance 
Thrust  on  the  warrior's  shield  :  there  fast  infixed, 
Nor  could  Alen(,on  the  deep-driven  spear 
Recover,  nor  the  foeman  from  h\s  grasp 
Wrench  the  contended  weapon.     Fierce  again 
He  lifts  the  mace,  that  on  the  ashen  hilt 
Fell  full ;  it  shiver'd,  and  the  Frenchman  held 
A  pointless  truncheon.     Where  the  Bastard  fought, 
The  spear  of  Poynings,  through  his  plated  mail 
Pierced,  and  against  the  iron  fence  beneath'-' 
Blunted  its  point.     Again  he  thrust  the  spear ; 
At  once  Dunois  on  his  broad  buckler  met 
The  unharming  stroke,  and  aim'd  with  better  hap 
His  javelin.     Through  his  sword-arm  did  it  pierce 
Maugre  the  mail :  hot  from  the  streaming  wound 
He  pluck'd  the  weapon  forth,  and  in  his  breast 
Clean  through  the  hauberk  drove. 

But  there  the  war 
Raged  fiercest  where  the  martial  Maiden  moved 
A  minister  of  wrath  ;  for  thither  throng'd 
The  bravest  champions  of  the  adverse  host. 
And  on  her  either  side  two  warriors  stood 
Protecting  her,  and  aiming  at  her  foes 
Watchful  their  weapons,  of  themselves  the  while 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Little  regarding :  on  the  one  side  he 
Who  to  the  English  had  her  bidding  borne ; 
Firmly  he  stood,  untircd  and  undisniay'd, 
Tliougii  many  a  spear  against  his  burgonet 
Was  thrust,  and  on  his  arm  the  buckler  hung 
Heavy,  thick-bristled  with  tlio  hostile  shafts, 
Even  like  a  porcupine,  when  in  his  rage 
Roused,  he  collects  within  him  all  his  force, 
Himself  a  quiver.     On  the  other  hand, 
Competing  witli  him  to  protect  the  Maid, 
Conrade  maintain'd  the  fight ;  at  all  points  arm'd, 
A  jazerent  of  double  mail  he  wore  ; 
Its  weight  in  little  time  had  wearied  one 
Of  common  strength;  but  unencumber'd  he. 
And  unfatigued,  alertly  moved  in  it, 
And  wielded  with  both  hands  a  battle-axe. 
Which  gave  no  second  stroke  ;  for  where  it  fell, 
Not  the  strong  buckler  nor  the  plated  mail 
Might  save,  nor  crested  casque.     On  Molyn's  head. 
As  at  the  Maid  he  aim'd  his  javelin. 
Forceful  it  fell,  and  shiver'd  with  the  blow 
The  iron  helm,  and  to  his  brain-pan  drove 
The  fragments.     At  his  fall  the  enemy. 
Stricken  with  instantaneous  fear,  gave  way. 
That  instant  Conrade,  with  an  active  bound. 
Sprung  on  the  battlements ;  '2-'  and  tiiere  he  stood. 
Keeping  the  ascent.     The  herald  and  the  Maid 
Follow'd,  and  soon  the  exulting  cry  of  France 
Along  the  lists  was  heard,  as  there  they  saw 
Her  banner  planted.     Gladdisdale  beheld, 
And  hastened  from  his  well-defended  post, 
That  where  immediate  danger  more  required 
There  he  might  take  his  stand ;  against  the  Maid 
He  bent  his  way,  and  hoped  one  happy  blow 
Might  end  at  once  the  new-raised  hopes  of  France, 
And  by  her  death,  to  the  English  arms  their  old 
Ascendency  restore.     Nor  did  not  Joan 
Areed  his  purpose,  but  with  lifted  shield 
Prepared  she  stood,  and  poised  her  sparkling  spear. 
The  English  chief  came  on  ;  he  raised  his  mace  ; 
With  circling  force  the  iron  weight  swung  high,'-'' 
And  Gladdisdale  with  his  collected  strength 
Impell'd  the  blow.     The  man  of  lowly  line 
That  instant  rush'd  between,  and  rear'd  his  shield. 
And  met  the  broken  stroke,  and  thrust  his  lance 
Clean  through  the  gorget  of  the  English  knight. 
A  gallant  man,  of  no  ignoble  line. 
Was  Gladdisdale.     His  sires  had  lived  in  peace ; 
They  heap'd  the  hospitable  hearth,  they  spread 
The  feast,  their  vassals  loved  them,  and  afar 
The  traveller  told  their  fame.     In  peace  they  died. 
And  to  their  ancient  burial-place  were  borne 
With  book  and  bell,  torches,  and  funeral  chant; 
And  duly  for  their  souls  the  neighboring  monks 
The  solemn  office  sung.     Now  far  away 
Their  offspring  falls,  the  last  of  all  his  race, 
Slain  in  a  foreign  land,  and  doom'd  to  share 
A  common  grave. 

Then  terror  seized  the  host, 
Their  chieftain  dead.     And  lo  !  where  on  the  wall 
Maintain'd  of  late  by  Gladdisdale  so  well, 
The  Son  of  Orleans  stands,  and  sways  around 
His  falchion,  keeping  thus  at  bay  the  foe, 
Till  on  the  battlements  his  comrades  climb 
And  raise  tJ.e  shout  of  conquest.     Then  appall'd 

The  English  fled :  nor  fled  they  unpursued, 
For  mingling  with  the  foremost  fugitives. 
The  gallant  Conrade  rush'd ;  and  with  the  throng 
The  knights  of  France  together  o'er  the  bridge 
Press'd  forward.     Nor  the  garrison  within 
Durst  let  the  ponderous  portcullis  fall. 
For  in  the  entrance  of  tiie  fort  the  fight 
Raged  fiercely,  and  together  through  the  gate 
The  vancjuish'd  English  and  their  eager  foes 
Pass'd  in  the  flying  conflict. 

Well  I  deem 
And  wisely  did  the  heroic  Spaniard  act 
At  Vera  Cruz,  when  he  his  yet  sound  ships 
Dismantling,  left  no  spot  where  treacherous  fear 
Might  still  with  wild  and  wistful  eye  look  back 
For  knowing  no  retreat,  his  desperate  troops 
In  conquest  sought  their  safety  ;  victors  hence 
At  Tlascala,  and  o'er  the  Cholulans, 
And  by  Otompan,  on  that  bloody  field 
When  Mexico  her  patriot  thousands  pour'd, 
Fierce  in  vain  valor,  on  their  dreadiul  foes. 
There  was  a  portal  in  the  English  fort 
Which  open'd  on  the  wall ;  '^  a  speedier  path 
In  the  hour  of  safety,  whence  the  soldier's  eye 
Might  overlook  the  river's  pleasant  course. 
Fierce  in  the  gate-way  raged  the  deadly  war  ; 
For  there  the  Maiden  strove,  and  Conrade  there, 
And  he  of  lowly  line,  bravelier  than  whom 
Fought  not  in  that  day's  battle.     Of  success 
Desperate,  for  from  above  the  garrison 
(Lest  upon  friend  and  enemy  alike 
The  indiscriminating  blow  should  light) 
Could  give  no  aid,  the  English  of  that  way 
Bethought  them ;  by  that  egress  they  forsook 
St.  Loup's,  and  the  Orleanites  with  shouts  of  joy 
Beheld  the  Virgin's  banner  on  its  height 
In  triumph  planted.     Swift  along  the  wall 
The  English  haste  to  St.  John's  neighboring  fort, 
Flying  with  fearful  speed.     Nor  from  pursuit 
The  victors  ceased,  but  with  the  fugitives 
Mingled  and  waged  the  war ;  and  combatants, 
Lock'd  in  each  other's  grasp,  together  fell 

But  foremost  of  the  French, 
Dealing  destruction,  Conrade  made  his  way 
Along  the  wall,  and  to  the  nearest  fort 
Came  in  pursuit ;  nor  did  not  then  the  chief 
What  most  might  serve  bethink  him ;  but  he  took 
His  stand  in  the  portal,  and  first  looking  back, 
Lifted  his  voice  aloud ;  three  times  he  raised, 
Cheering  and  calling  on  his  countrymen, 
That  voice  o'er  all  the  uproar  heard  afar. 
Then  to  the  strife  addrest  himself,  assail' d 
By  numerous  foes,  who  clamorously  now 
Menaced  his  single  person.     He  the  while 
Stood  firm,  not  vainly  confident,  or  rash. 
But  in  his  vantage  more  than  his  own  strength 
Trusting ;  for  narrow  was  the  portal  way. 
To  one  alone  fit  passage,  from  above 
Not  overbrow'd  by  jutting  parapet,'-^ 
Whence  aught  might  crush  him.  He  in  double  mail 
Was  arm'd  ;  a  massy  burgonet,  well  tried 
In  many  a  hard-fought  field,  helming  his  head  • 
And  fenced  with  iron  plates,  a  buckler  broad 
Hung  from  his  neck.     Nor  to  dislodge  the  chief 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Coulil  tlif  Kiiolisli  briiiirtlieiriuiiiibtTs,  for  tlio  way 

Bv  upward  steps  prosouteil  from  the  fort 

A  narrow  asoent,  wliere  one  alone  could  meet 

Tiie  war.     Yet  were  they  of  their  numbers  proud, 

Tliougli  useless  numbers  were  in  tiiat  strait  path, 

Save  by  assault  unceasing  to  outlast 

A  single  warrior,  who  at  length  must  sink 

Fatigued  with  slaughter,  and  by  toil  foredone 


There  was  amid  tlie  garrison 
A  gallant  knight  who  at  Verneuil  had  fought, 
And  good  renown  for  feats  of  arms  achieved 
Had  gain'd  in  tliat  day's  victory.     For  him 
His  countrymen  made  way,  and  he  his  lance 
Thrust  upward  against  Conrade,  who  perceived 
The  intent,  and,  as  the  weapon  touch'd  his  shield. 
Smote  with  his  battle-axe  the  ashen  shaft ; 
Then  plucking  from  the  shield  the  severed  head. 
He  threw  it  back.'*^     With  wary  bend  the  foe 
Shrunk  from  the  flying  death ;  yet  not  in  vain 
From  that  strong  hand  the  fato-fraught  weapon  flew  : 
Full  on  the  corselet  of  a  meaner  man  '^ 
It  fell,  and  pierced  him  where  the  heaving  lungs, 
In  vital  play  distended,  to  the  heart 
Roll  back  their    brighten'd   tide :    from   the   deep 

The  red  blood  gush'd  ;  prone  on  the  steps  he  fell, 
And  in  the  strong,  convulsive  grasp  of  death 
Grasp'd  his  long  pike.     Of  unrecorded  name 
The  soldier  died ;  and  yet  he  left  behind 
One  who  then  never  said  her  daily  prayers 
Of  liim  forgetful ;  who  to  every  tale 
Of  the  distant  war  lending  an  eager  ear. 
Grew  pale  and  trembled.     At  her  cottage  door 
The  wretclied  one  shall  sit,  and  with  fix'd  eye 
Gaze  on  the  patli,  where  on  his  parting  steps 
Her  last  look  hung.     Nor  ever  shall  she  know 
Her  husband  dead,  but  cherishing  a  hope, 
Whose  falsehood  inwardly  she  knows  too  well. 
Feel  life  itself  with  that  false  hope  decay  ; 
And  wake  at  night  from  miserable  dreams 
Of  his  return,  and  weeping  o'er  her  babe, 
Too  surely  think  that  soon  tliat  fatherless  child 
Must  of  its  mother  also  be  bereft. 

Dropping  his  broken  spear,  the  exasperate  knight 
Drew  forth  the  sword,  and  up  the  steps  advanced. 
Like  one  who  disregarded  in  his  strength 
The  enemy's  vantage,  destined  to  abide 
That  rashness  dearly.     Conrade  stood  prepared. 
Held  forth  his  buckler,  and  his  battle-axe 
Uplifted.     Where  the  buckler  was  beneath 
Rounded,  the  falchion  struck,  a  bootless  blow 
To  pierce  its  plated  folds ;  more  forcefully 
Full  on  his  crested  helm  the  battle-axe 
Descended,  driving  in  both  crest  and  crown ; 
f>om  the  knight's  eyes,  at  that  death-stroke,  the 

Started  ;  with  blood  the  chambers  of  the  brain 
Were  fill'd;  his  breastplate  with  convulsive  throes 
Heaved  as  he  fell.     Victorious,  he  the  prize 
At  many  a  tournament  had  borne  away 
In  mimic  war  ;  happy,  if  so  content 
With  bloodless  glory,  he  had  never  left 
The  mansion  of  his  sires. 

But  terrified 
The  Englisli  stood,  nor  durst  adventure  now 
Near  that  death-doing  foe.     Amid  their  host 
Was  one  who  well  could  from  the  stubborn  yew 
Send  his  sharp  shafts  ;  well  skill'd  in  wood-craft  he, 
Even  as  the  merry  outlaws  who  their  haunts 
In  Sherwood  held,  and  bade  their  bugles  rouse 
The  sleeping  stag,  ere  on  the  web-woven  grass 
The  dew-drops  sparkled  to  the  rising  sun. 
He  safe  in  distance  at  the  warrior  aim'd 
The  feather'd  dart ;  with  force  he  drew  tlie  bow ; 
Loud  on  his  bracer  struck  the  sounding  string, 
And  swift  and  strong  the  well-fledged  arrow  flew, 
it  pierced  the  shield,  and  reach'd,  but  reach'd  in  vain, 
Tlie  breastplate  :  while  he  fitted  to  the  bow 
A  second  arrow,  Conrade  raised  his  voice, 
Shouting  for  timely  succor  to  secure 
The  entrance  he  had  gain'd.     Nor  was  the  call 
Unheard,  nor  unobey'd  ;  responsive  shouts 
Announced  assistance  nigh  ;  the  Orloanites 
From  St.  Loup's  captured  fort  along  tlie  wall 
Sped  to  support  him ;  cheering  was  the  sound 
Of  their  near  footsteps  to  the  chief;  he  drew 
His  falchion  forth,  and  down  the  steps  he  went. 
Then  terror  seized  the  Englisli,  for  their  foes 
Press'd  through  the  open  portal,  and  the  sword 
Of  Conrade  was  among  them  making  way. 
Not  to  the  Trojans  when  their  ships  were  lost 
More  dreadful  the  R,utilian  hero  seern'd. 
Then  hoping  well  to  right  himself  in  arms  ; 
Nor  with  more  fury  through  the  streets  of  Paris 
Rush'd  the  fierce  king  of  Sarza,  Rodomont, 
Clad  in  his  dragon  mail. 

Like  some  tall  rock, 
Around  whose  billow-beaten  foot  the  waves 
Spend  their  vain  force,  unshaken  Conrade  stood, 
When,  drawing  courage  from  despair,  the  foe 
Renew'd  the  contest.  Through  the  throng  he  hew'd 
His  way  unhurt  amid  the  arrowy  shower. 
Though  on  his  shield  and  helm  the  darts  fell  fast, 
As  the  sear'd  leaves  that  from  the  tremblimr  tree 
The  autumnal  whirlwind  shakes.  Nor  did  he  pause 
Till  to  the  gate  he  came,  and  with  strong  hand 
Seized  on  the  massy  bolts.     These  as  he  drew, 
Full  on  his  helm  a  weighty  English  sword 
Descended ;  swift  he  turn'd  to  wreak  his  wrath. 
When  lo  I  the  assailant  gasping  on  the  ground. 
Cleft  by  the  Maiden's  falchion  :  she  herself 
To  the  foe  opposing  with  her  herald's  aid. 
For  they  alone,  following  the  adventurous  steps 
Of  Conrade,  still  kept  pace  as  he  advanced. 
Shielded  him  while  with  eager  hand  he  drew 
The  bolts :  the  gate  turn'd  slow ;  forth  leapt  the  chief. 
And  shiver'd  with  his  battle-axe  the  chains 
That  held  on  high  the  bridge  :  down  fell  the  brido-e 
Rebounding;  the  victorious  troops  rush'd  in; 
And  from  their  walls  the  Orloanites  with  shouts 
And  tears  of  joy  beheld  on  Fort  St.  John 
The  lilies  wave. 

"  On  to  Fort  London  !  on  !  " 
Cried   Conrade  ;    "  Xaintrailles !    while     the    day 

Once  more  advance  to  certain  victory  ! 
Force  ye  the  lists,  and  fill  the  moat,  and  bring 
The  battering-ram  against  their  gates  and  walls 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


Anon  I  shall  be  with  you.     Thus  he  said ; 
Then  to  the  damsel.     "Maid  of  Arc!  awhile 
Let  thou  and  I  withdraw,  and  by  short  rest 
Renew  our  strength."     So  saying  he  his  helm 
Unlaced,  and  in  the  Loire's  near  flowmg  stream 
Cool'd  his  hot  liicc.     The  Maid  her  liead  unhelm'd, 
And  stooping  to  the  stream,  reflected  there 
Saw  her  white  plumage  stain'd  with  human  blood  ! 
Sliuda.^ring  she  saw,  but  soon  her  steady  soul 
Collected  :  on  tlie  banks  she  laid  her  down, 
Freely  awhile  respiring,  for  her  breath 
Still  panted  from  the  fight :  silent  they  lay, 
And  gratefully  the  cooling  breezes  bathed 
Their  throbbing  temples. 

Eve  was  drawing  on  : 
The  sunbeams  on  the  gently-waving  stream 
Danced  sj)arkling.    Lost  in  tlioughtthe  warrior  lay  ; 
Then  as  if  wakening  from  a  dream  he  said, 
"  Maiden  of  Arc  !  at  such  an  hour  as  this. 
Beneath  the  o'erarching  forest's  checker'd  shade. 
With  that  lost  woman  have  I  wander'd  on, 
Talking  of  years  of  happiness  to  come  ! 
Oh  !  hours  forever  fled  !  delightful  hopes 
Of  the  unsuspecting  heart !  I  do  believe 
If  Agnes  on  a  worthier  one  had  fix'd 
Her  love,  that  though  ray  heart  had  nurst  till  death 
Its  sorrows,  I  had  never  on  her  choice 
Cast  one  upbraiding  —  but  to  stoop  to  him  I 
A  harlot !  —  an  adulteress  !  "  ^-^ 

In  his  eye 
Fierce  anger  flash'd ;  anon  of  what  she  was 
Ere  the  contagious  vices  of  tjie  court 
Polluted  her,  he  thought.     "  Oh,  happy  age  I " 
He  cried,  "  when  all  the  family  of  man 
Freely  enjoy'd  their  goodly  heritage, 
And  only  bow'd  the  knee  in  prayer  to  God  I 
Calm  flow'd  the  unruffled  stream  of  years  along. 
Till  o'er  the  peaceful  rustic's  head  the  hair 
Grew  gray  in  full  of  time.     Then  he  would  sit 
Beneath  the  coetaneous  oak,  while  round. 
Sons,  grandsons,  and  their  offspring  join'd  to  form 
The  blameless  merriment;  and  learnt  of  him 
What  time  to  yoke  the  oxen  to  the  plough, 
What  hollow  moanings  of  the  western  wind 
Foretell  the  storm,  and  in  what  lurid  clouds 
The  embryo  lightninglies.  Well  pleased,  he  taught, 
A  heart-smile  glowing  on  his  aged  cheek. 
Mild  as  the  summer  sun's  decaying  light. 
Thus  quietly  the  stream  of  life  flow'd  on. 
Till  in  the  shoreless  ocean  lost  at  length. 
Around  the  bed  of  death  his  numerous  race 
Listen'd,  in  no  unprofitable  grief. 
His  last  advice,  and  caught  his  latest  sigli  : 
And  when  he  died,  as  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
In  his  own  ground,  and  underneath  the  tree 
Which,  planted  at  his  birth,  with  him  had  grown. 
And  flourish'd  in  its  strength  when  he  decay'd, 
They  delved  the  narrow  house  :  where  oft  at  eve 
Their  children's  children  gathered  round  to  hear 
The  example  of  his  life  and  death  impress'd. 
Maiden  I  and  such  the  evening  of  my  days 
Fondly  I  hoped ;  and  would  that  I  had  lived 
In  those  old  times,'*'  or  till  some  better  age 
Slumber'd  unborn  ;  for  this  is  a  hard  race. 
An  evil  generation  ■  nor  by  day 

Nor  in  the  night  have  respite  from  their  cares 
And  wretchedness.     But  1  shall  be  at  rest 
Soon,  in  that  better  world  of  peace  and  love 
Where  evil  is  not :  in  that  better  world, 
Joan !  we  shall  meet,  and  he  too  will  be  there, 
Thy  Theodore." 

Soothed  by  his  words,  the  Maid 
Had  listen'd  sadly,  till  at  that  loved  name 
She  wept.    "  Nay,  Maid  !  "  he  cried, "  I  did  not  think 
To  wake  a  tear;  —  yet  pleasant  is  thy  grief  I 
Thou  know'st  not  what  it  is,  around  thy  heart 
To  have  a  false  one  wreathe  in  viper  folds. 
But  to  the  battle  !  in  the  clang  of  arms. 
We  win  forgetfulness." 

Then  from  the  bank 
He  sprung,  and  helm'd  his  head.     The  Maid  arose, 
Bidding  awhile  adieu  to  gentle  thoughts. 
On  to  the  fort  they  speed,  whose  name  recall'd 
England's  proud  capital  to  the  English  host, 
Now  half  subdued,  anticipating  death, 
And  vainly  wishing  they  from  her  white  cliffs 
Had  never  spread  the  sail.     Cold  terror  creeps 
Through  every  nerve  :  already  they  look  round 
With  haggard  eyes,  as  seeking  where  to  fly. 
Though  Talbot  there  presided,  with  their  chief, 
The  dauntless  Salisbury. 

'•  Soldiers,  tried  in  arms !  " 
Thus,  hoping  to  revive  with  gallant  speech 
Their  courage,  Salisbury  spake ;  "  Brave  country- 
Victorious  in  so  many  a  hard-fought  fight. 
What  —  shrink  ye  now  dismay 'd  .'     Oh  call  to  mind 
The  plains  of  Agincourt,  where  vanquish'd  France 
Fled  with  her  thousands  from  your  fathers'  arms  .' 
Have  ye  forgotten  how  our  English  swords,  - 
On  that  illustrious  day  before  Verneuil, 
Cut  down  the  flower  of  all  their  chivalry  .' 
Then  was  that  noble  heart  of  Douglas  pierced,'-" 
Bold  Buchan  bit  the  earth,  and  Narbonne  died. 
And  this  Alen(;on,  boaster  as  he  is. 
Cried  mercy  to  his  conqueror.     Shall  I  speak 
Of  our  victorious  banner  on  the  walls 
Of  Yenville  and  Baugenci  triumphing; 
And  of  that  later  hour  of  victory 
When  Clermont  and  the  Bastard  plied  their  spurs .' 
Shame  !  shame  !  that  beaten  boy  is  here  in  arms, 
And  ye  will  fly  before  the  fugitives,  — 
Fly  from  a  woman  !  from  a  frantic  girl ! 
Who  with  her  empty  mummeries  tries  to  blast 
Your  courage  ;  or  if  miracles  she  bring, 
Aid  of  the  Devil  I     Who  is  there  among  you 
False  to  his  country,  —  to  his  former  fame. 
To  your  old  leader  who  so  many  a  time 
Hath  led  ye  on  to  glory .'  " 

From  the  host 
There  came  a  heartless  shout;  then  Talbot's  cheek 
Grew  red  with  indignation.     "  Earl  1  "  said  he, 
Addressing  Salisbury,  "  there  is  no  hope 
From  these  white-liver'd  dastards,  and  this  fort 
Will  fall  an  easy  conquest.     We  must  out 
And  gain  the  Tournelles,  better  fortified. 
Fit  to  endure  a  siege  :  that  hope  in  view, 
Cow'd  as  they  are,  the  men  from  very  fear 
May  gather  what  will  do  for  this  poor  turn 
The  work  of  courage." 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


Bravely  thus  he  spake, 
Advising  well,  and  Salisbury  replied  : 
"  Rightly  thou  say'st.    But,  Talbot,  could  we  reach 
The  sorceress  in  the  battle,  one  sure  blow 
Might  give  us  back,  this  hour,  the  mastery 
So  marvellously  lost :  nor  difiicult 
To  meet  the  wench,  for  from  the  battlements 
I  have  beheld  lier  foremost  in  attack. 
Playing  right  valiantly  the  soldier's  part. 
In  her  the  enemy  have  their  strength;    with  her 
Their  strength  would  fall.   And  had  we  her  butonce 
Within  arm-stroke,  witch  though  she  be,  methinks 
lier  devilry  could  neither  blunt  the  edge 
Of  thy  good  sword,  or  mine." 

Thus  communed  they. 
And  through  the  host  the  gladdening  tidings  ran, 
Tiiat  they  should  seek  the  Tournelles.     Then  their 

Gather'd  new  strength,  placing  on  those  strong 

Dependence;  oh  vain  hope  !  for  neither  wall, 
Nor  moat,  nor  fort  can  save,  if  fear  within 
Palsy  the  soldier's  arm. 

Them  issuing  forth. 
As  from  the  river's  banks  they  pass'd  along. 
The  Maid  beheld     "  Lo  !  Conrade  !  "  she  exclaim'd, 
"  The  foe  advance  to  meet  us  —  look  !  they  lower 
The  bridge  !  and  now  they  rush  upon  the  troops  :  — 
A  gallant  onset !     Dost  thou  mark  the  man 
Who  all  tliis  day  has  by  our  side  endured 
The  hottest  conflict .'     Often  1  beheld 
His  feats  with  wonder,  but  his  prowess  now 
Makes  all  his  actions  in  the  former  fight 
Seem  as  of  no  account :  knowest  thou  him  .' 
There  is  not  one,  amid  the  liost  of  France, 
Of  fairer  promise." 

"He,"  the  chief  replied, 
"  Wretched  and  prodigal  of  life,  achieves 
The  exploits  of  despair ;  a  gallant  youth, 
Widow'd  like  me  of  hope,  and  but  for  whom 
I  had  been  seen  among  mankind  no  more. 
Maiden  !  with  me  thy  comrade  in  the  war. 
His  arm  is  vow'dto  heaven.    Lo  !  where  he  stands 
Bearing  the  battle's  brunt !  " 

Nor  paused  they  now 
In  further  converse,  to  the  perilous  fray 
Speeding,  not  unobserved  ;  for  Salisbury  saw 
And  call'd  on  Talbot.     Six,  the  bravest  knights. 
And  sworn  with  them,  against  the  Virgin's  life 
Address'd  their  course.     She  by  the  herald's  side 
Now  urged  the  war,  when  on  her  white-plumed  helm 
The  hostile  falchion  fell.     On  high  she  lifts 
That  hallowed  sword,  which  in  the  tomb  for  her 
Age  after  age,  by  miracle  reserved. 
Had  lain,  which  time  itself  could  not  corrode, 
How  then  might  shield,  or  breastplate,  or  close  mail 
Rotund  its  edge  ?     Beneath  that  edge  her  foe 
Fell ;  and  the  knight  who  to  avenge  him  came. 
Smitten  by  Conrade's  battle-axe,  was  fell'd 
L'pon  his  dying  friend.     With  Talbot  here 
The  daring  herald  urged  unequal  fight; 
For,  like  some  oak  that  in  its  rooted  strength 
Defies  the  storm,  the  undaunted  Earl  endured 
His  quick  assault.     The  herald  round  him  wheels 
Rapidlj',  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that. 

With  many  a  feign'd  and  many  a  frustrate  aim 

Flashing  his  falcliion  ;  now,  as  he  perceives 

With  wary  eye  the  Earl's  intended  stroke, 

Bending,  or  leaping,  lithe  of  limb,  aside. 

Then  quick  and  agile  in  assault  again. 

Ill-fated  man  !  one  deed  of  glory  more 

Shall    with    the   short-lived  lightning's   splendor 

This  thy  death-day  ;  for  Slait.iitf.r  even  now 
Stands  o'er  thy  loom  of  life,  and  lifts  his  sword. 

Upon  her  shield  the  martial  Maid  received 
An  English  warrior's  blow,  and  in  his  side. 
Beneath  the  arm  upraised,  in  prompt  return 
Pierced  him :  that  instant  Salisbury  sped  his  sword. 
Which,  glancing  from  her  helm,  fell  on  the  folds 
That  arm'd  her  neck,  and  making  there  its  way, 
Stain'd  with  her  blood  its  edge.     The  herald  saw, 
And  turn'd  from  Talbot,  heedless  of  himself, 
And  lifting  up  his  falchion,  all  his  force 
Concentred.     On  the  breast  of  Salisbury 
It  fell,  and  cleft  his  mail,  and  through  the  plat<» 
Beneath  it  drove,  and  in  his  heart's  blood  plunged. 
Lo  !  as  he  struck,  the  mighty  Talbot  came. 
And  smote  his  helmet :  slant  the  weapon  fell ; 
The  strings  gave  v/ay,  the  helmet  dropt,  the  Earl 
Repeated  on  that  head  disarm'd  his  blow  : 
Too  late  to  interpose  the  Maiden  saw. 
And  in  that  miserable  moment  knew 
Her  Theodore. 

Him  Conrade  too  had  seen. 
And  from  a  foe  whom  he  had  beaten  down 
Turn'd  terrible  in  vengeance.     Front  to  front 
They  stood,  and  each  for  the  death-blow  prepared 
His  ano-ry  might.     At  once  their  weapons  fell. 
The  Frenchman's  battle-axe  and  the  good  sword 
Of  Talbot.     He,  stunn'd  by  the  weighty  blow. 
Sunk  senseless,  by  his  followers  from  the  field 
Convey'd  with  timely  speed  :  nor  had  his  blade 
Fallen  vainly  on  the  Frenclunan's  crested  lielm. 
Though  weak  to  wound  ;  for  from  his  eyes  the  fire 
Sparkled,  and  back  recoiling  with  the  blow, 
He  in  the  Maiden's  arms  astounded  fell. 

But  now  their  troops,  all  captainless,  confused, 
Fear  seized  the  English.     Not  with  more  dismay. 
When  over  wild  Caft'raria's  wooded  hills 
Echoes  the  lion's  roar,  the  timid  herd 
Fly  the  death-boding  sound.     The  forts  they  seek, 
Now  reckless  which,  so  from  tliat  battle's  rage 
A  present  refuge.     On  their  flying  ranks 
The  victors  press,  and  mark  their  course  with  blood. 

But  loud  the  trumpet  of  retreat  resounds, 
For  now  the  westering  sun  with  many  a  hue 
Streak'd  the  gay  clouds. 

"  Dunois  !  "  the  Maiden  cried, 
"Form  now  around  yon  stronger  pile  the  siege. 
There  for  the  night  encamping."     So  she  said. 
The  chiefs  to  Orleans  for  their  needful  lood, 
And  enginery  to  batter  that  huge  pile, 
Dlsmlss'd  a  troop,  and  round  the  Tournelles  led 
The  host  beleaguering.  There  they  pitch  their  tents, 
And  plant  their  engines  for  the  morrow's  war, 
Then,  to  their  meal,  and  o'er  the  cheerful  bowl 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 


Recount  the  talc  of  danger  ;  soon  to  rest 
Betaking  them ;  for  now  the  night  drew  on. 


Now  was  the  noon  of  night,  and  all  was  still, 
Save  where  the  sentinel  paced  on  his  rounds 
Humming  a  broken  song.     Along  the  camp 
High  flames  the  frequent  fire.     The  Frenchmen 

On  the  bare  earth  extended,  rest  their  limbs 
Fatigued  ;  their  spears  lay  by  them,  and  the  shield 
Pillow'd  the  helmed  head  :  '^^  secure  they  slept, 
And  busy  in  their  dreams  they  fought  again 
The  fight  of  yesterday. 

But  not  to  Joan, 
But  not  to  her,  most  wretched,  came  thy  aid. 
Soother  of  sorrows.  Sleep!  no  more  her  pulse, 
Amid  the  battle's  tumult  throbbing  fast, 
Allow'd  no  pause  for  thought.    With  clasp'd  hands 

And  with  fix'd  eyes  she  sat,  and  in  her  mind 
The  spectres  of  the  days  departed  rose, 
A  melancholy  train  !     Upon  the  gale 
The  raven's  croak  was  heard ;  she  started  then. 
And  passing  through  the  camp  with  hasty  step, 
She  sought  the  field  of  blood. 

The  niglit  was  calm  ; 
Nor  ever  clearer  welkin  canopied 
Chaldea,  while  the  watchful  shepherd's  eye 
Survey 'd  the  host  of  heaven,  and  mark'd  them  rise 
Successive,  and  successively  decay. 
Lost  in  the  stream  of  light,  as  lesser  springs 
Amid  Euphrates'  current.     The  high  wall 
Cast  a  deep  shadow,  and  the  Maiden's  feet 
Stumbled  o'er  carcasses  and  broken  arms  ; 
And  sometimes  did  she  hear  the  heavy  groan 
Of  one  yet  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death. 
She  reach'd  the  spot  where  Theodore  was  slain 
Before  Fort  London's  gate  ;  but  vainly  there 
Sought  she  the  youth,  on  every  clay-cold  face 
Gazing  with  such  a  look  as  though  she  fear'd 
The  thing  she  sought. '^■^  And  much  she  marvell'd 

For  there  the  victim  of  his  vengeful  arm. 
And  close  beside  where  he  himself  had  fallen, 
Known  by  the  buckler's  blazon'd  heraldry, 
Salisbury  lay  dead.     So  as  the  Virgin  stood 
Looking  around  the  plain,  she  mark'd  a  man 
Pass  slowly  on,  as  burden'd.     Him  to  aid 
She  sped,  and  soon  with  unencumber'd  speed 
O'ertaking,  thus  bespake  him  :  "Dost  thou  bear 
Some  slaughter' d friend.'  oris  itonewhose  wounds 
Leave  yet  a  hope  of  life  .'  oh  !  if  he  lives, 
1  will  with  earnest  prayer  petition  Heaven 
To  shed  its  healing  on  him  !  " 

So  she  said, 
And  as  she  spake  stretch'd  forth  her  careful  hands 
To  ease  the  burden.     "  Warrior  !  "  he  replied, 
"  Thanks  for  thy  proffer'd  aid  :  but  he  hath  ceased 
To  suffer,  and  my  strength  may  well  suffice 
To  bear  him  himce  for  burial.     Fare  thee  well ! 

The  night  is  far  advanced  ;  thou  to  the  camp 
Return  :  it  fits  not  darkling  thus  to  stray." 

"Conrade!"  the  Maid  exclaim'd,  for  well  she 

His  voice  :  —  With  that  she  fell  upon  his  neck 
And  cried,  "My  Theodore  !  —  But  wherefore  thus 
Through   the   dead   midnight   dost  thou  bear  his 

corse .' " 

"  Peace,  Maiden !  "  Conrade  cried,  "collect  thy 
soul ! 
He  is  but  gone  before  thee  to  that  world 
Whither  thou  soon  must  follow  !     Ycsiermorn, 
Ere  yet  from  Orleans  to  the  war  we  went. 
He  pour'd  his  tale  of  sorrow  on  mine  ear. 
'  Lo,  Conrade,  where  she  moves !  beloved  Maid  ! 
Devoted  for  the  realm  of  France  she  goes. 
Abandoning  for  this  the  joys  of  life, 
Yea — life  itself!     Yet  on  my  heart  her  words 
Vibrate.     If  she  must  perish  in  the  war, 
I  will  not  live  to  bear  tlie  thought  that  I 
Perhaps  might  have  preserved  her.     I  will  go 
In  secret  to  protect  her.     If  I  fall,  — 
And  trust  me  I  have  little  love  of  life, — 
Do  thou  in  secret  bear  me  from  the  field. 
Lest  haply  I  might  meet  her  wandering  eye 
A  mangled  corpse.     She  must  not  know  my  fate. 
Do  this  last  act  of  friendship,  and  in  the  stream 
Cast  me,  —  she  then  may  think  of  Theodore 
Without  a  pang.'     Maiden.  I  vow'd  with  him 
To  take  our  place  in  battle  by  thy  side. 
And  make  thy  safety  our  peculiar  care. 
And  now  I  hoped  thou  hadst  not  seen  him  fall.  " 

Saying  thus,  he  laid  the  body  on  the  ground. 
With  steady  eye  the  wretched  Maiden  view'd 
That  life-left  tenement :  his  batter'd  arms 
Were  with  the  night-dews  damp ;  his  brown  liair 

Gore-clotted  in  the  wound,  and  one  loose  lock 
Play'd  o'er  his  cheek's  black  paleness."^   "  Gallant 

youth  !  " 
She  cried,  "  1  would  to  God  the  hour  were  come 
When  I  might  meet  thee  in  the  bowers  of  bliss  1 
No,  Theodore  I  the  sport  of  winds  and  waves, 
Thy  body  shall  not  float  adown  the  stream  I 
Bear  him  with  me  to  Orleans,  there  to  rest 
In  holy  ground,  where  priests  may  say  their  prayers 
And  hymn  the  requiem  to  his  parted  soul. 
So  will  not  Elinor  in  bitterness 
Lament  that  no  dear  friend  to  her  dead  child 
Paid  the  last  office." 

From  the  earth  they  lift 
Their  mournful  burden,  and  along  the  plain 
Pass  with  slow  footsteps  to  the  city  gate. 
The  obedient  sentinel,  knowing  Conrade's  voice, 
Admits  them  at  that  hour,  and  on  they  go, 
Till  in  the  neighboring  abbey's  porch  arrived 
They  rest  the  lifeless  load. 

Loud  rings  the  bell , 
The  awaken'd  porter  turns  the  heavy  door. 
To  him  the  Virgin  :  "  Father,  from  the  slain 
On  yonder  field,  a  dear-loved  friend  we  bring 
Hither  for  Christian  sepulture  •  chant  ye 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Tlie  requiem  to  his  soul :  to-morrow  eve 
I  will  return,  and  in  tiie  narrow  house 
Will  see  him  laid  to  rest."     The  father  knew 
The  Prophetess,  and  humbly  bow'd  assent. 

.Now  from  the  city,  o'er  the  sh.adowy  plain, 
Backward    they    bend    their    way.     From   silent 

The  Maid  awakening  cried,  "There  was  a  time. 
When  thinking  on  my  closing  hour  of  life, 
Though  with  a  mind  resolved,  some  natural  fears 
Shook  my  weak  frame ;  but  now  the  happy  hour. 
When  this  emancipated  soul  shall  burst 
Tlie  cumbrous  fetters  of  mortality, 
1  look  for  wishfully.     Conrade  !  my  friend, 
This  wounded  heart  would  feel  another  pang 
Shouldst  thou  forsake  me." 

"  Joan  1  "  the  chief  replied, 
"  Along  the  weary  pilgrimage  of  life 
Together  will  we  journey,  and  beguile 
The  painful  way  with  hope,  —  such  hope  as,  fix'd 
On  heavenly  things,  brings  with  it  no  deceit, 
Lays  up  no  food  for  sorrow,  and  endures 
From  disappointment  safe." 

Thus  communing 
They  reach'd  the  camp,  yet  hush'd;  there  separating, 
Each  in  the  post  allotted  restless  waits 
The  day-break. 

Morning  came  :  dim  through  the  shade 
The    twilight    glimmers;    soon    the   brightening 

Imbibe  the  rays,  and  o'er  the  landscape  spread 
The  dewy  light.     The  soldiers  from  the  earth 
Arise  invigorate,  and  each  his  food 
Receives,  impatient  to  renew  the  war. 
Dunois  his  javelin  to  the  Tournelles  points  — 
"  Soldiers  of  France  !  behold,  your  foes  are  there  !  " 
As  when  a  band  of  hunters,  round  the  den 
Of  some  wood-monster,  point  their  spears,  elate 
In  hope  of  conquest  and  the  future  feast. 
When  on  the  hospitable  board  their  spoil 
Shall  smoke,  and  they,  as  foaming  bowls  go  round. 
Tell  to  their  guests  their  exploits  in  the  chase. 
They  with  their  shouts  of  exultation  make 
The  forest  ring ;  so  elevate  of  heart. 
With  such  loud  clamors  for  the  fierce  assault 
The  French  prepare.     Nor,  keeping  now  the  lists 
Dare  the  disheartened  English  man  to  man 
Meet  the  close  conflict.     From  the  barbican,'^ 
Or  from  the  embattled  wall  '*^  at  random  they 
Their  arrows  and  their  death-fraught  enginery 
Discharged;    meantime   the   Frenchmen  did    not 

With  well-directed  shafts  their  loftier  foes 
To  assail :  behind  the  guardian  pavais  fenced,'^" 
They  at  the  battlements  their  arrows  aim'd, 
Showering  an  iron  storm,  whilst  o'er  the  bayle, 
The  bayle  now  levell'd  by  victorious  France, 
The  assailants  pass'd  with  all  their  mangonels  ;  '■'* 
Or  tortoises,'-"  beneath  whose  roofing  safe. 
They,  filling  the  deep  moat,  might  for  the  towers 
Make  fit  foundation  ;  or  with  petraries, 
War- wolves,  and  beugles,  and  that  murderous  sling 
The  matafund,  from  whence  the  ponderous  stone 
Made  but  one  wound  of  him  whom  in  its  way 

It  met ;  no  pious  hand  might  then  compose 
The  crush'd  and  mangled  corpse  to  be  conveyed 
To  where  his  fathers  slept :  a  dreadful  train  ''"* 
Prepared  by  Salisbury  o'er  the  town  besieged 
For  hurling  ruin  ;  but  that  dreadful  train 
Must  hurl  its  ruin  on  the  invader's  head  ; 
Such  retribution  rigliteous  Heaven  decreed. 

Nor  lie  the  English  trembling,  for  the  fort 
Was  ably  garrison'd.     Glacidas,  the  chief, 
A  gallant  man,  sped  on  from  place  to  place 
Cheering  the  brave  ;  or  if  an  archer's  hand. 
Palsied  with  fear,  shot  wide  his  ill-aim'd  shaft, 
Driving  him  from  the  ramparts  witli  reproach 
And  shame.     lie  bore  an  arbalist  himself, 
A  weapon  for  its  sure  destructivencss 
Abominated  once;"'"  wherefore  of  yore 
The  assembled  fathers  of  the  Christian  church 
Pronounced  the  man  accursed  whose  impious  hand 
Should  use  the  murderous  engine.     Such  decrees 
Befitted  them,  as  ministers  of  peace, 
To  promulgate,  and  with  a  warning  voice. 
To  cry  aloud  and  spare  not,  '  Woe  to  them 
Whose  hands  are  full  of  blood  ! ' 

An  English  king. 
The  lion-hearted  Richard,  their  decree 
First  broke,  and  rightly  was  he  doom'd  to  fall 
By  that  forbidden  weapon  ;  since  that  day 
Frequent' in  fields  of  battle,  and  from  far 
To  many  a  good  knight  bearing  his  death  wound 
From  hands  unknown.     With  such  an  instrument 
Arm'd  on  the  ramparts,  Glacidas  his  eye 
Cast  on  the  assailing  host.     A  keener  glance 
Darts  not  the  hawk  when  from  the  feather'd  tribe 
He  marks  his  prey. 

A  Frenchman  for  his  aim 
He  chose,  who  kneeling  by  the  trebuchet. 
Charged  its  long  sling  with  death. '^*  Him  Glacidas, 
Secure  behind  the  battlements,  beheld. 
And  strung  his  bow ;  then  bending  on  one  knee. 
He  in  the  groove  the  feather'd  quarrel  placed,'^^ 
And  levelling  with  sure  eye,  his  victim  mark'd. 
The  bow-string  twang'd,  swift  on  its  way  the  dart 
Whizz'd,  and  it  struck,  there  where  the  helmet's 

Defend  the  neck  ;  a  weak  protection  now. 
For  through  the  tube  which  draw's  the  breath  of  life 
Pierced  the  keen  shaft ;  blood  down  the  unwonted 

Gush'd  to  the  lungs  .  prone  fell  the  dying  man 
Grasping,  convulsed,  the  earth  ;  a  hollow  groan 
In  his  throat  struggled,  and  the  dews  of  death 
Stood  on  his  livid  cheek.     The  days  of  youth 
He  had  pass'd  peaceful,  and  had  known  what  joys 
Domestic  love  bestows,  the  father  once 
Of  two  fair  children  ;  in  tlie  city  hemm'd 
During  the  siege,  he  had  beheld  their  cheeks 
Grow  pale  with  famine,  and  had  heard  their  cries 
For  bread.     His  wife,  a  broken-hearted  one. 
Sunk  to  the  cold  grave's  quiet,  and  her  babes 
With  hunger  pined,  and  follow'd ;  he  survived, 
A  miserable  man,  and  heard  the  shouts 
Of  joy  in  Orleans,  when  the  Maid  approach'd. 
As  o'er  the  corpse  of  his  last  little  one 
He  heap'd  the  unhallowed  earth.     To  him  the  foe 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Perfonn'd  a  friendly  part,  liastcning  the  hour 
Grief  else  had  soon  brought  on. 

The  English  chief, 
Pointing  again  his  arbalist,  let  loose 
The  string  ;  tlie  quarrel,  by  that  impact  driven, 
True  to  its  aim,  fled  fatal  :  one  it  struck 
Dragging  a  tortoise  to  the  moat,  and  fix'd 
Deep  in  his  liver  ;  blood  and  mingled  gall 
Flow'd  from  the  wound,  and  writhing  with  keen 

Headlong  he  fell.     He  for  the  wintry  hour 
Knew  many  a  merry  ballad  and  quaint  tale, 
A  man  in  his  small  circle  well  beloved. 
None  better  knew  with  prudent  hand  to  guide 
The  vine's  young  tendrils,  or  at  vintage  time 
To  j)ress  the  full-swollen  clusters;  he,  heart-glad. 
Taught  his  young  boys  the  little  all  he  knew, 
Enough  for  happiness.     The  English  host 
Laid  waste  his  fertile  fields  :  he,  to  the  war, 
By  want  compelled,  adventured,  in  his  gore 
Now  weltering. 

Nor  the  Gallic  host  remit 
Their  eager  efforts ;  some,  the  watery  fence, 
Beneath  the  tortoise  roofed,  with  engines  apt 
Drain  painful ; '"'■*   part,  laden  with  wood,  throw 

Their  buoyant  burdens,  laboring  so  to  gain 
Firm  footing :  some  the  mangonels  supply, 
Or    charging  with   huge   stones   the    murderous 

Or  petrary,  or  in  the  espringal 
Fix  tlie  brass-winged  arrows :  ''*^  hoarse  around 
The  uproar  and  the  din  of  multitudes 
Arose.     Along  the  ramparts  Gargrave  went, 
Cheering  the  English  troops ;  a  bow  he  bore ; 
The  quiver  rattled  as  he  moved  along. 
He  knew  aright  to  aim  his  feathered  shafts, 
Well  skilled  to  pierce  the  mottled  roebuck's  side, 
O'ertaken  in  his  speed.     Him  passing  on, 
A  ponderous  stone  from  some  huge  martinet,''" 
Struck  :  on  his  breastplate  falling,  the  huge  weight 
Shattered  the  bone,  and  to  his  mangled  lungs 
Drove  in  the  fragments.     On  the  gentle  brow 
Of  a  fair  hill,  wood-circled,  stood  his  home, 
A  stately  mansion,  far  and  wide  from  whence 
The  sight  ranged  unimpeded,  and  surveyed 
Streams,  hills,  and  forests,  fair  variety  ! 
The  traveller  knew  its  hospitable  towers, 
For  open  were  the  gates,  and  blazed  for  all 
The  friendly  fire.     By  glory  lured,  the  youth 
Went  forth ;  and  he  had  bathed  his  falchion's  edge 
In  many  a  Frenchman's  blood;  now  crush'd  beneath 
Tlic  ponderous  fragments'  force,  his  lifeless  limbs 
Lie  quivering. 

Lo  !  towards  the  levelled  moat, 
A  moving  tower,  the  men  of  Orleans  wheel  '"* 
Four  stages  elevate.     Above  was  hung, 
Equalling  the  walls,  a  bridge  ;  in  the  lower  stage 
A  battering-ram :  within  a  chosen  troop 
Of   archers,    through    the    opening,    shot    their 

In  the  loftiest  part  was  Conrade,  so  prepared 
To  mount  the  rampart;  for,  no  hunter  he, 
He  loved  to  see  the  dappled  foresters 
Browze  fearless  on  their  lair,  with  friendly  eye, 

And  happy  in  beholding  happiness, 

Not  meditating  death  :  the  bowman's  irt 

Therefore  he  little  knew,  nor  was  he  wont 

To  aim  the  arrow  at  the  distant  foe, 

But  uprear  in  close  conflict,  front  to  front, 

His  battle-axe,  and  break  the  shield  and  helm, 

First  in  the  war  of  men.     There  too  the  Maid 

Awaits,  impatient  on  the  wall  to  wield 

Her  falchion.     Onward  moves  the  heavy  tower. 

Slow  o'er  the  moat  and  steady,  though  the  foe 

Showered  there  their  javelins,  aimed  their  engines 

And  from  the  arbalist  the  fire-tipt  dart 
Shot  burning  through  the  sky  .'^''    In  vain  it  flamed 
For  well  with  many  a  reeking  hide  secured. 
Passed  on  the  dreadful  pile,  and  now  it  reached 
The  wall.     Below,  with  forceful  impulse  driven. 
The  iron  headed  engine  swings  its  stroke. 
Then  back  recoils ;  while  they  within  who  guide. 
In  backward  step  collecting  all  their  strength, 
Anon  the  massy  beam  with  stronger  arm 
Drive  full  and  fierce.     So  rolls  the  swelling  sea 
Its  curly  billows  to  the  unmoved  foot 
Of  some  huge  promontory,  whose  broad  base 
Breaks  the  rough  wave  ;   the  shivered  surge  rolls 

Till,  by  the  coming  billow  borne,  it  bursts 
Again,  and  foams  with  ceaseless  violence  : 
The  wanderer,  on  the  sunny  clift  outstretched, 
Harks  to  the  roaring  surges,  as  they  rock 
His  weary  senses  to  forgetfulness. 

But  nearer  danger  threats  the  invaders  now, 
For  on  the  ramparts,  lowered  from  above 
The  bridge  reclines.'^'     A  universal  shout 
Rose  from  the  hostile  hosts.     The  exultant  French 
Break  out  in  loud  rejoicing,  whilst  the  foe 
Raise  a  responsive  cry,  and  call  aloud 
For  speedy  succor  there,  with  deafening  shout 
Cheering  their  comrades.     Not  with  louder  din 
The  mountain  torrent  flings  precipitate 
Its  bulk  of  waters,  though  amid  the  fall 
Shattered,  and  dashing  silvery  from  the  rock. 

Lo  I  on  the  bridge  forth  comes  the  undaunted  man, 
Conrade  I  the  gathered  foes  along  the  wall 
Throng  opposite,  and  on  him  point  their  pikes. 
Cresting  with  armed  men  the  battlements. 
He  undismayed,  though  on  that  perilous  height, 
Stood  firm,  and  hurled  his  javelin ;  the  keen  point 
Pierced  through  the  destined  victim,  where  his  arm 
Joined  the  broad  breast :  a  wound  which  skilful  care 
Haply  had  healed ;  but,  him  disabled  now 
For  further  service,  the  unpitying  throng 
Of  his  tumultuous  comrades  from  the  Weill 
Thrust  headlong.   Nor  did  Conrade  cease  to  throw 
His  deadly  javelins  fast,  for  well  within 
The  tower  was  stored  with  weapons,  to  his  hand 
Quickly  supplied.     Nor  did  the  missioned  Maid 
Rest  idle  from  the  combat ;  she,  secure. 
Aimed  the  keen  quarrel ;  taught  the  crossbow's  use 
By  the  willing  mind  that  what  it  well  desires 
Gains  aptly  :  nor  amid  the  numerous  throng. 
Though  haply  erring  from  their  destined  mark. 
Sped  her  sharp  arrows  frustrate.     From  the  tower 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Ceaseless  the  bow-strings  twang :  the  knights  below, 

Eacli  by  his  pavais  bulwarked,  tlilther  aimed 

TluMr  darts,  and  not  a  dart  lell  woundless  tliere ; 

So  tliickiy  llirongod  they  stood,  and  fell  as  fast 

As  wiien  the  monarch  of  the  East  goes  forth 

Troni  Genina's  banks  and  the  proud  palaces 

Of  Delhi,  the  wild  monsters  of  the  wood 

Die  in  the  blameless  warfare :  closed  within 

The  still-contracting  circle,  their  brute  force 

Wasting  in  mutual  rage,  they  perish  there, 

Or  by  each  other's  fury  lacerate, 

The  archer's  barbed  arrow,  or  the  lance 

Of  some  bold  youth  of  his  first  exploits  vain, 

Rajah  or  Oinrah,  in  the  war  of  beasts 

Venturous,  and  learning  thus  the  love  of  blood. 

Shouts  of  alarm  ring  now  along  the  wall. 
For  now  the  French  tlieir  scaling-ladders  place. 
And  bearing  high  their  bucklers,  to  the  assault 
Mount  fearless :  from  above  the  furious  troops 
Fling  down  such  weapons  as  inventive  care 
Or  frantic  rage  supplies :  huge  stones  and  beams 
Crush  the  assailants  ;  some,  thrust  from  the  height. 
Fall  living  to  their  death  ;  tormented,  some, 
And  writhing  wildly  as  the  liquid  lead 
Consumes  their  flesh,  leap  desperately  down. 
To  end  their  pain  by  death.     Still  others  mount. 
And  by  their  fellows'  fate  untcrrificd, 
Still  dare  the  perilous  way.     Nor  dangerlcss 
To  the  English  was  the  fight,  though  where  they 

The  vantage-place  was  theirs ;  for  them  amidst 
Fast  fled  the  arrows  there  ;  and  brass- wing'd  darts. 
There  driven  resistless  from  the  espringal. 
Keeping  their  impulse  even  in  the  wound. 
Whirl   as   they   pierce    the    victim.'^'^     Some  fall 

Beneath  the  ponderous  fragment  that  descends 
The  heavier  from  its  height :  some  the  long  lance. 
Whizzing  impetuous  on  its  viewless  way, 
Transfix'd.     The  cannon  ever  and  anon 
With  thunder  rent  the  air;  conflicting  shouts 
And  war-cries  French  and  English  rung  around, 
And  Saints  and  Devils  were  invoked  in  prayers 
And  execrations,  Heaven  and  Hell  adjured. 

Conrade,  meantime,  who  stood  upon  the  brido-e, 
WMi  many  a  well-aim'd  javelin  dealing  death. 
Made  way  upon  the  rampart,  and  advanced 
With  wary  valor  o'er  his  slauffhter'd  foes. 
Two  youths,  the  boldest  of  the  English  host. 
Essay 'd  to  thrust  him  from  that  perilous  height; 
At  once  they  press'd  upon  him  :  he,  his  axe 
Dropping,  the  dagger  drew :  one  through  the  throat 
He  pierced,  and  swinging  his  broad  buckler  round, 
Struck  down  his  comrade.     Even  thus  unmoved. 
Stood  Corineus,'^''  the  sire  of  Guendolen, 
When,  grappling  with  his  monstrous  enemy, 
lie  the  brute  vastness  held  alofl,  and  bore, 
.And  headlong  hurl'd,  all  shatter'd  to  the  sea, 
Down  from  the  rock's  high  summit,  since  that  day 
llim,  hugest  of  the  giants,  chroniclinf^ 
Called  Langoemagog. 

Behold,  the  Maid 
Bounds  o'er  the  bridge,  and  to  the  wind  displays 

Her  hallowed  banner.     At  that  welcome  sight 
A  general  shout  of  acclamation  rose, 
And  loud,  as  when  the  trunipest-tossing  forest 
Roars  to  the  roaring  wind.     Then  terror  seized 
The  garrison;  and  fired  anew  with  hope. 
The  fierce  assailants  to  their  prize  rush  on 
Resistless.     Vainly  do  their  English  foes 
Hurl  there  their  beams,  and  stones,  and  javelins. 
And  firebrands ;  fearless  in  the  escalade, 
The  assailants  mount,  and  now  upon  the  wall 
Wage  equal  battle. 

Burning  at  the  sight 
With  indignation,  Glacidas  beheld 
His  troops  fly  scatter'd ;  fast  on  every  side 
The  foe  up-rushing  eager  to  their  spoil ; 
Tlie  holy  standard  waving ;  and  the  Maid 
Fierce    in    pursuit.      "  Speed    but     this     arrow, 

Heaven! " 
The  chief  exclaim'd,  "and  I  shall  fall  content."' 
So  saying,  he  his  sharpest  quarrel  chose, 
And  fix'd  the  bow-string,  and  against  the  Maid 
Levelling,  let  loose  :  her  arm  was  raised  on  high 
To  smite  a  fugitive  ;  he  glanced  aside. 
Shunning  her  deadly  stroke,  and  thus  received 
The  chieftain's  arrow  :  through  his  ribs  it  pass'd, 
And  cleft  that  vessel  whence  the  purer  blood 
Through  many  a  branching  channel  o'er  the  frame 

"  Fool !  "  the  exasperate  knight  exclaim'd, 
"  Would  she  had  slain  thee  !  thou  hast  lived  too 

Again  he  aim'd  his  arbalist :  the  string 
Struck  forceful  :  swift  the  erring  arrow  sped 
Guiltless  of  blood,  for  lightly  o'er  the  court 
Bounded  the  warrior  Virgin.     Glacidas 
Levell'd  his  bow  again ;  the  fated  shaft 
Fled  true,  and  difficultly  through  the  mail 
Pierced  to  her  neck,  and  tinged  its  point  with  blood 
"She   bleeds!    she   bleeds!"   exulting   cried  tlie 

"  The  sorceress  bleeds  I  nor  all  her  hellish  arts 
Can  charm  my  arrows  from  their  destin'd  course." 
Ill-fated  man  !  in  vain  with  eager  hand 
Placing  th}'  fcathcr'd  quarrel  in  its  groove, 
Dream'st  thou  of  Joan  subdued  !    She  from  her  neck 
Plucking  the  shaft  unterrified,  exclaim'd, 
"  This  is  a  favor  !  ^■'*  Frenchmen,  let  us  on ! 
Escape  they  cannot  from  the  liand  of  God 

But  Conrade,  rolling  round  his  angry  eyes, 
Beheld  the  English  chieftain  as  he  arm'd 
Again  the  bow  :  with  rapid  step  he  strode  > 
And  Glacidas,  perceiving  his  approach, 
At  him  the  quarrel  turn'd,  which  vainly  sent. 
Fell  blunted  from  his  buckler.     Conrade  came 
And  lifting  high  the  deadly  battle-axe. 
Through  pouldron  and  through  shoulder  deeply 

Buried  it  in  his  bosom  :  prone  he  fell  ; 
The  cold  air  rush'd  upon  his  heaving  heart. 
One  whose  low  lineage  gave  no  second  name 
Was  Glacidas,'^*  a  gallant  man  ;   and  still 
His  memory  in  the  records  of  the  foe 

And  now,  dishearten'd  at  his  fall, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    Vlll 

The  vanquish'd  Englisli  fly  towards  the  gate, 
Seeking  the  inner  court,'^''  as  yet  in  hope 
To  abide  a  second  siege,  and  with  their  friends 
Find  present  refuge  there.     Mistaken  men  I 
The  vanquish'd  have  no  friends !  defeated  thus, 
I'ress'd  by  pursuit,  in  vain  with  eager  voice 
They  call  their  comrades  in  tlie  suppliant  tones 
Of  pity  now,  now  with  the  bitter  curse 
Of  fruitless  anger ;  they  indeed  within 
Fast  from  the  ramparts  cast  upon  the  French 
Beams,   stones,   and  javelins,  —  but  the   gate    is 

The  huge  portcullis  down  ! 

Then  terror  seized 
Their  hopeless  hearts :  some,  furious  in  despair. 
Turn  on  their  foes ;  fear-palsied  some  await 
The  coming  death;  some  drop  the  useless  sword, 
And  cry  for  mercy. 

Then  the  Maid  of  Arc 
Took  pity  on  the  vanquish'd ;  and  she  call'd 
Aloud,  and  cried  unto  the  host  of  France, 
And  bade  them  cease  from  slaughter.  They  obey'd 
The  delegated  Damsel.     Some  there  were 
Apart  who  communed  murmuring,  and  of  those 
Graville  addrcss'd  her  .  "  Prophetess  !  our  troops 
Are  few  in  number ;  ana  to  well  secure 
These  many  prisoners  such  a  force  demands. 
As  should  we  spare  might  shortly  make  us  need 
The  mercy  we  bestow  ;  not  mercy  then, 
Rather  to  these  our  soldiers,  cruelty. 
Justice  to  them,  to  France,  and  to  our  king, 
And  that  regard  vi^isc  nature  hath  in  each 
Implanted  of  self-safety,  all  demand 
Their  deaths." 

"  Foul  fall  such  evil  policy  !  " 
The  indignant  Maid  exclaim'd.  "  I  tell  thee,  chief, 
God  is  with  us !  but  God  shall  hide  his  face 
From  them,  short-sighted  they,  as  hard  of  heart. 
Who,  disregarding  all  that  mitigates, 
All  that  ennobles  dreadful  war,  shed  blood 
Like  water ;  who,  in  the  deceitful  scales 
Of  worldly  wisdom,  dare  to  counterpoise 
The  right  with  the  expedient,  and  resolve 
Without  compunction,  as  the  beam  inclines 
Held  in  a  faltering  or  a  faithless  hand. 
These  men  shall  live  to  see  their  homes  again, 
Some  to  be  welcomed  there  with  tears  of  joy 
By  those  who  to  the  latest  hour  of  life 
Will  in  their  grateful  prayers  remember  us. 
And  when  that  hour  shall  come  to  us,  that  comes 
To  all,  how  gladly  should  we  then  exchange 
Renown,  however  splendid,  for  the  thought 
That  we  have  saved  one  victim  from  the  sword, — 
If  only  one,  —  who  begs  for  us  from  Heaven 
That  mercy  which  to  others  we  have  shown  !  " 

Turning  to  Conrade,  then  she  said,  "  Do  thou 
Appoint  an  escort  for  the  prisoners. 
Thou  need'st  not  be  reminded  they  are  men, 
Rather  by  fortune,  or  by  fate,  than  choice. 
Brought  hither  from  their  homes  to  work  our  bale. 
And  for  their  own  not  less ;  but  yielded  thus 
Whom  we  must  neither  treat  as  enemies 
Nor  trust  as  friends,  but  in  safe-keeping  hold, 
Both  for  their  own  security  and  ours." 

She  said  :  when  Conrade  cast  his  eyes  around, 
And  saw  from  man  to  man  where  Francis  ran, 
Bidding  them  sjjare  the  vanquish'd;  him  he  hail'd. 
"  Tlie  Maid  liatii  bade  me  choose  a  leader  i'ortii 
To  guard  the  prisoners ;  thou  shall  be  the  man ; 
For  thou  wilt  guard  them  with  due  diligence. 
Yet  not  forgetful  of  humanity."' 

Meantime  the  garrison  of  that  stronghold. 
Who,  lest  the  French  should  enter,  had  exposed 
Their  comrades  to  the  sword,  sustain'd  the  siege 
In  desperate  valor.     Fast  against  the  walls 
The  battering-ram  was  driven ;  the  mangonels 
Plied  at  the  ramparts  fast ;  the  catapults 
Drove  there  their  dreadl'ul  darts ;  the  war-wolves 

Hurl'd  their  huge  stones ;  and,  through  the  kindled 

Tlie  engines  shower'd  their  sheets  of  liquid  fire.'*'' 

"Feel    ye    not,   comrades,   how   the    rampart? 
shake .' ' ' 
Exclaim'd  a  daring  Englishman.     "  Our  foes, 
In  woman-like  compassion,  have  dismiss'd 
A  powerful  escort,  weakening  thus  themselves, 
And  giving  us  fair  hope,  in  equal  field. 
Of  better  fortune.     Sorely  here  annoy'd. 
And  slaugliter'd  by  their  engines  from  afar, 
We  perish.     Vainly  may  the  soldier  boast 
Undaunted  courage  and  the  arm  of  strensrth, 

o  to        7 

If  thus  pent  up,  like  some  wild  beast  he  falls, 
Mark'd  for  the  hunter's  arrows.     Let  us  out 
And  meet  them  in  the  battle,  man  to  man, 
Either  to  conquer,  or  at  least  to  die 
A  soldier's  death." 

"Nay,  nay  —  not  so,"  replied 
One  of  less  hopeful  courage.     "  Though  they  point 
Their  engines  here,  our  archers  not  in  vain 
Discharge  their  quarrels.     Let  the  walls  and  works 
Still  be  defended ;  it  will  then  be  time 
To  meet  the.n  in  the  battle  man  to  man, 
When  these  shall  fail  us." 

Scarcely  had  he  said, 
When  a  huge  stone,  throwii  from  some  petrary 
Smote  him  upon  the  breast,  and  with  dismay 
Fill'd  all  around ;  for  as  it  shattered  him. 
His  blood  besprinkled  them,  and  they  beheld 
His  mangled  lungs  lie  quivering. 

"  Such  the  fate 
Of  those  who  trust  them  to  their  walls'  defence !  " 
Again  exclaim'd  the  soldier:  '-Thus  they  fall, 
Be'tray'd  by  their  own  fears.     Courage  alone 
Can  save  us." 

Nor  to  draw  them  from  the  fort 
Now  needed  eloquence  ;  with  one  accord 
They  bade  him  lead  the  onset.     Forth  tliey  rush'd 
Impetuous.     With  such  fury  o'er  the  plain. 
Swollen  by  the  autumnal  tempest.  Vega  rolls 
His  rapid  waters,  when  the  gathered  storm. 
On  the  black  heights  of  Hatteril  bursting,  swells 
The  tide  of  desolation. 

Then  the  Maid 
Spake  to  the  Son  of  Orleans,  "  Let  our  troops 
Fall  back,  so  shall  the  English  in  pursuit 
Leave  this  strong  fortress,  thus  an  easy  prey." 

BOOK    IX. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Time  was  not  for  long  counsel.     From  the  court, 
Obedient  to  Dunois,  the  French  retire 
As  if  at  the  irruption  of  their  foes 
Dishearten'd  ;  tliey,  with  shouts  and  loud  uproar, 
ilaste  to  their  fancied  conquest  :  Joan,  the  while 
I'lacnig  a  small  but  gallant  garrison. 
Bade  them  secure  tlie  gates  ;  then  sallying  forth, 
With  such  fierce  onset  charged  then)  in  the  rear. 
That  terror  smote  the  English,  and  they  wish'd 
Again  that  tliey  might  hide  them  in  their  walls 
Rashly  abandoned,  for  now  wheeling  round 
Dunois  attack'd  their  flank.     All  captainless. 
lU-marshall'd,  ill-directed,  in  vain  rage 
They  waste  tlieir  furious  efforts,  falling  fast 
Before  the  Maid's  good  falcliion  and  the  arm 
Of  Conrade  :  loud  was  heard  the  mingled  sound 
Of  arms  and  men  ;  the  soil,  that,  trampled  late 
By  multitudes,  sent  up  its  stifling  clouds 
Of  dust,  was  miry  now  with  human  blood. 

On  the  fort's  summit  Talbot  raark'd  the  fight, 
And  calling  for  his  arms  impatiently. 
Eager  to  issue  forth,  was  scarce  withheld  ; 
For  now,  dishearten'd  and  discomfited, 
The  troops  took  flight. 

Upon  the  bridge  there  stood 
A  strong-built  tower,  commanding  o'er  the  Loire. 
The  traveller  sometimes  linger'd  on  his  way, 
Marking  the  playful  tenants  of  the  stream. 
Seen  in  its  shadow,  stem  the  sea-ward  tide  ; 
This  had  the  invaders  won  in  hard  assault. 
Before  the  delegate  of  Heaven  came  forth 
And  made  them  fear  who  never  fear'd  till  then. 
Thither  the  English  troops  with  hasty  steps 
Retired,  not  utterly  defeated  yet. 
But  mindful  of  defence  :  the  garrison 
Them  thus  retreating  saw,  and  open  threw 
Their  guarded  gates,  and  on  the  Gallic  host. 
Covering   their  vanquish'd  fellows,    pour'd    their 

Check'd  in  pursuit  tliey  stop.  Then  Graville  cried, 
'■  111,  Maiden,  hast  thou  done  !  those  valiant  troops 
Thy  womanish  pity  has  dismiss'd,  with  us 
Conjoin'd,  might  press  upon  the  vanquish'd  foe, 
Though  aided  thus,  and  plant  the  lilied  flag 
Victorious  on  yon  tower." 

"  Dark-minded  man  !  " 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  answer'd  ;  "  to  act  well 
Brings  with  itself  an  ample  recompense. 
I  have  not  rear'd  the  Oriflamme  of  death  —  '^^ 
Now  God  forbid  I     The  banner  of  the  Lord 
Is  this,  and  come  what  will,  me  it  behoves. 
Mindful  of  Him  whose  minister  I  am, 
To  spare  the  fallen  foe  :  that  gracious  God 
Sends  me  a  messenger  of  mercy  forth. 
Sends  me  to  save  this  ravaged  realm  of  France, 
To  England  friendly  as  to  all  the  world. 
Only  to  those  an  enemy,  whose  lust 
Of  sway  makes  them  the  enemies  of  man." 

She  said,  and  suddenly  threw  off"  her  helm; 
Her  bosom  heaved,  —  her  cheek  grew  red,  —  her 

Beam'd  with  a  wilder  lustre.     "  Thou  dost  deem 
That  I  have  illy  spared  so  large  a  band, 

Disabling  from  pursuit  our  weaken'd  troops  ;  — 
God  is  with  us  !  "  she  cried  —  "  God  is  with  us  ! 
Our  Champion  manifest!  " 

Even  as  she  spake. 
The  tower,  the  bridge,  and  all  its  multitudes,  • 
Sunk  with  a  mighty  crash. '^* 

Seized  on  the  French ;  an  universal  cry 
Of  terror  burst  from  them.     Crush'd  in  the  fall, 
Or  by  their  armor  hopelessly  weigh'd  down, 
Or  while  they  plied  their  unencumber'd  arms. 
Caught  by  some  sinking  wretch,  who  grasp'd  them 

Shrieking  they  sunk,  while  frequent  fragments  huge 
Fell  in  the  foaming  current.     From  the  fort 
Talbot  beheld,  and  gnash'd  his  teeth,  and  cursed 
The  more  than  mortal  Virgin  ;  whilst  the  towers 
Of  Orleans  echoed  to  the  loud  uproar. 
And  all    who   heard   trembled,  and   cross'd  theii 

And  as  they  hasten'd  to  the  city  walls, 
Told  fearfully  their  beads. 

'T  was  now  the  hour 
When  o'er  the  plain  the  fading  rays  of  eve 
Their  sober  light  effuse ;  when  the  lowing  herd. 
Slow  as  they  move  to  shelter,  draw  behind 
Their  lengthening  shadows;  and  toward  his  nest. 
As  heavily  he  flaps  the  dewy  air. 
The  hoarse  rook  breathes  his  melancholy  note. 
"  Now  then,  Dunois,  for  Orleans  !  "  cried  the  Maid 
"  And  give  we  to  the  flames  these  monuments 
Of  sorrow  and  disgrace.     The  ascending  flames 
Will  to  the  dwellers  of  yon  rescued  town 
Rise  with  a  joyful  splendor,  while  the  foe 
Behold  and  tremble." 

As  she  spaKe,  they  ran 
To  burn  the  forts  ;  they  shower  their  wild  fire  there, 
And  high  amid  the  gloom  the  ascending  flames 
Blaze  up  ;  '^^  then  joyful  of  their  finish'd  toil 
The  host  retire.     Hush'd  is  the  field  of  fight 
As  the  calm'd  ocean,  when  its  gentle  waves 
Heave  slow  and  silent,  wafting  tranquilly 
The  shatter'd  fragments  of  some  midnight  wreck 


Far  through  the  shadowy  sky  the  ascending  flames 
Stream'd  their  fierce  torrents,  by  the  gales  of  night 
Now  curl'd,  now  flashing  their  long  lightnings  up 
That  made  the  stars  seem  pale  ;  less  frequent  now 
Through  the  red  volumes  briefer  splendors  shot. 
And  blacker  waves  roll'd  o'er  the  darken'd  heaven. 
Dismay 'd  amid  the  forts  whioh  yet  rcmain'd 
The  invaders  saw,  and  clamor 'd  for  retreat, 
Deeming  that  aided  by  invisible  powers 
The  Maid  went  forth  to  conquer.     Not  a  sound 
Moved  on  the  air  but  fill'd  them  with  vague  dread 
Of  unseen  dangers  ;  if  a  sudden  blast 
Arose,  through  every  fibre  a  deep  fear 
Crept  shivering,  and  to  their  expecting  minds 
Silence  itself  w;is  dreadful.'^'     One  there  was 
Who,  learning  wisdom  in  the  hour  of  ill, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    IX. 

Exclaim'd,  "  I  marvel  not  that  the  Most  High 
Hath  hid  his  face  from  England  !    Wiierefore  thus 
Quitting  the  comforts  of  domestic  life, 
Came  wo  to  desolate  this  goodly  land, 
Making  the  drench'd  earth  rank  witli  human  blood, 
Scatter  pollution  on  the  winds  of  Heaven  ? 
Oh  !  that  the  sepulchre  had  closed  its  jaws 
On  the  proud  prelate,  that  blood-guilty  man, 
Who,  trembling  for  the  church's  ill-got  wealth. 
Bade  our  Fifth  Henry  claim  the  crown  of  France  !  *'>^ 
Oh  !  that  the  grave  had  swallow'd  him,  ere  he 
Stirr'd  up  the  sleeping  claim,  and  sent  him  forth 
To  slaughter !     Sure  that  holy  hermit  spake 
The  Almighty's  bidding,"*^  who  in  his  career 
Of  conquest  met  the  King,  and  bade  him  oease 
The  work  of  death,  before  the  wrath  divine 
Fell  heavy  on  his  head.  —  Full  soon  it  fell. 
And  sunk  him  to  the  grave ;  —  and  soon  that  wrath 
On  us,  alike  in  guilt,  alike  shall  fall ; 
For  thousands  and  ten  thousands,  by  the  sword 
Cut  off,  and  sent  before  the  Eternal  Judge, 
With  all  their  unrepented  crimes  upon  them. 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  ;  for  the  widow's  groan, 
Though  here  she  groan  unpitied  or  unheard, 
Is  heard  in  Heaven  against  us;  o'er  this  land 
For  hills  of  human  slain,  unsepulchred. 
Steam  pestilence,  and  cloud  the  blessed  sun  ! 
The  wrath  of  God  is  on  us,  —  God  hath  raised 
This  Prophetess,  and  goes  before  her  path ;  — 
Our  brethren,  vainly  valiant,  fall  beneath  them. 
Clogging  with  gore  their  weapons,  or  in  the  flood 
Whelm'd  like  the  Egyptian  tyrant's  impious  host, 
Mangled  and  swollen,  their  blacken'd  carcasses 
Float  on  the  tainted  current !     We  remain,  — 
For  yet  our  rulers  will  pursue  the  war, — 
We  still  remain  to  perish  by  the  sword. 
Soon  to  appear  before  the  throne  of  God, 
Conscious,  too  late,  of  folly  and  of  guilt, 
Uninjured,  unprovoked,  who  dared  to  risk 
The  life  His  goodness  gave  us,  on  the  chance 
Of  war,  and  in  obedience  to  our  chiefs 
Durst  disobey  our  God." 

Then  terror  seized 
The  troops  and  late  repentance  ;  and  they  thought 
The  spirits  of  the  mothers  and  their  babes 
Famish'd  at  Roan  sat  on  the  clouds  of  night,'"^ 
Circling  the  forts,  to  hail  with  gloomy  joy 
The  hour  of  vengeance. 

Nor  the  English  chiefs 
Heard  these  loud  murmurs  heedless  ;  counsellino- 
They  met  despondent.     Suffolk,  now  their  chief. 
Since  Salisbury  fell,  began. 

"  It  now  were  vain 
Lightly  of  this  our  more  than  mortal  foe 
To  spealc  contemptuous.     She  hath  vanquish'd  us. 
Aided  by  Hell's  leagued  powers,  nor  aught  avails 
Man  unassisted  'gainst  Infernal  powers 
To  dare  the  conflict."'^     Were  it  best  remain 
Waiting  the  doubtful  aid  of  Burgundy, 
Doubtful  and  still  delay'd  ?  or  from  this  place, 
Scene  of  our  shame,  retreating  as  we  may. 
Yet  struggle  to  preserve  the  guarded  towns 
Of  the  Orleannois  .'  " 

He  ceased,  and  with  a  sigh, 
Struggling  with  pride  that  heaved  his  gloomy  breast, 

Talbot  replied,  "  Our  council  little  boots ; 
For  by  their  numbers  now  made  bold  in  fear  '** 
The  soldiers  will  not  fight;  they  will  not  heed 
Our  vain  resolves,  heart-wither'd  by  tlie  spells 
Of  this  accursed  sorceress.     Soon  will  come 
The  expected  host  from  England ;  even  now 
Perchance  the  tall  bark  scuds  across  the  deep 
That  bears   my   son  :    young  Talbot  comes,  —  he 

To  find  his  sire  disgraced  !     But  soon  mine  arm, 
By  vengeance  nerved,  and  shame  of  such  defeat. 
Shall  from  the  crest-fallen  courage  of  yon  witch, 
Regain  its  ancient  glory.     Near  the  coast 
Best  is  it  to  retreat,  and  there  expect 
The  coming  succor." 

Thus  the  warrior  spake. 
Joy  ran  through  all  the  troops,'*'  as  though  retreat 
Were  safety.     Silently  in  ordcr'd  ranks 
They  issue  forth,  favor'd  by  the  thick  clouds 
Which  mantled  o'er  the  moon.     With  throbbing 

Fearful  they  speeded  on  ;  some  in  sad  thoughts 
Of  distant  England,  and  now  wise  too  late. 
Cursing  in  bitterness  the  evil  hour 
That  led  them  from  her  sliores ;  some  in  faint  hope 
Thinking  to  see  their  native  land  again ; 
Talbot  went  musing  on  his  former  fame. 
Sullen  and  stern,  and  feeding  on  dark  thoughts. 
And  meditating  vengeance. 

In  the  walls 
Of  Orleans,  though  her  habitants  with  joy 
Humbly  acknowledged  the  high  aid  of  Heaven, 
Of  many  a  heavy  ill  and  bitter  loss 
Mindful,  such  mingled  sentiments  they  felt 
As  one  from  shipwreck  saved,  the  first  warm  glow 
Of  transport  past,  who  contemplates  himself 
Preserved  alone,  a  solitary  wretch, 
Possess'd  of  life  indeed,  but  reft  of  all 
That  makes   man   love  to   live.     The   chieftains 

The  social  bowl,'"^  glad  of  the  town  relieved. 
And  communing  of  that  miraculous  Maid, 
Who  came  the  savior  of  the  realm  of  France, 
When,  vanquish'd  in  the  frequent  field  of  shame. 
Her  bravest  warriors  trembled. 

Joan  the  while 
Fasting  and  silent  to  the  convent  pass'd, 
Conrade  with  her,  and  Isabel ;  both  mute, 
Yet  gazing  on  her  oft  with  anxious  eyes. 
Looking  the  consolation  that  they  fear'd 
To  give  a  voice  to.     Now  they  reach'd  the  dome  : 
The  glaring  torches  o'er  the  house  of  dcatii 
Stream'd  a  sad  splendor.    Flowers  and  funeral  herbs 
Bedeck'd  the  bier  of  Theodore, — the  rue, 
The  dark  green  rosemary,  and  the  violet, 
That  pluck'd  like  him  witlier  d  in  its  first  bloom. 
Dissolved  in  sorrow,  Isabel  her  grief 
Pour'd  copiously,  and  Conrade  also  wept : 
Joan  only  shed  no  tears ;  from  her  fix'd  eye 
Intelligence  was  absent ;  and  she  seem'd. 
Though  listening  to  the  dirge  of  death,  to  hear 
And  comprehend  it  not,  till  in  the  grave, — 
In  his  last  home,  —  now  TJieodore  was  laid. 
And  earth  to  earth  upon  the  coffin  thrown ; 
Then  the  Maid  started  at  that  mortal  sound, 

BOOK    IX. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


And  her  lip  (juiver'd,  and  on  Isabel, 

Trembling-  and  faint,  she  leant,  and  pale  as  death. 

Then  in  the  priest  arose  an  earnest  hope, 
That,  weary  of  the  world  and  sick  witl)  woe. 
The  Maid  might  dwell  with  them  a  virgin  vow'd. 
"Ah,  damsel!"  slow  he   spake,  and  cross'd   his 

"  Ah,  damsel  !  favor'd  as  thou  art  of  Heaven, 
Let  not  thy  soul  beneath  its  sorrow  sink 
Despondent ;  Heaven  by  sorrow  disciplines 
The  froward  heart,  and  chastens  whom  it  loves. 
Therefore,  companion  of  thy  way  of  life, 
Shall  sorrow  wean  thee  from  tliis  faithless  world, 
Wliere  happiness  provokes  the  traveller's  chase, 
And  like  the  midnight  meteor  of  the  marsh 
Allures  his  long  and  perilous  pursuit. 
Then  leaves  him  dark  and  comfortless.     O  Maid  ! 
Fix  thou  thine  eyes  upon  that  heavenly  dawn 
Beyond  tlie  night  of  life  !     Thy  race  is  run. 
Thou  hast  deliver'd  Orleans :  now  perfect 
Thyself,  accomplish  all,  and  be  the  child 
Of  God.     Amid  these  sacred  haunts  the  groan 
Of  woe  is  never  heard  ;  these  hallow'd  roofs 
Rei-cho  only  to  the  pealing  quire, 
The  chanted  mass,  and  virgin's  holy  hymn, 
Celestial  sounds  !     Secluded  here,  the  soul 
Receives  a  foretaste  of  her  joys  to  come  ; 
This  is  the  abode  of  piety  and  peace  ; 
Oil !  be  tlieir  inmate,  Maiden  !     Come  to  rest, 
Die  to  the  world,  and  live  espoused  to  Heaven  !  " 

Then  Conrade  answered,  "  Father  !  Heaven  has 

This  Maid  to  active  duties." 

"  Active  !  "  cried 
The  astonish'd  Monk  ;  "  thou  dost  not  know  the  toils 
This  holy  warfare  asks  ;  thou  dost  not  knov/ 
How  powerful  the  attacks  that  Satan  makes 
By  sinful  Nature  aided  !     Dost  thou  think 
It  is  an  easy  task  from  the  fond  breast 
To  root  affection  out  ?  to  burst  the  cord.s 
Which  grapple  to  society  tlie  heart 
Of  social  man.'  to  rouse  the  unwilling  spirit, 
That,  rebel  to  devotion,  faintly  pours 
The  cold  lip-worship  of  the  wearying  prayer  .' 
To  fear  and  tremble  at  Him,  yet  to  love 
A  God  of  Terrors.'     Maid  beloved  of  Heaven, 
Come  to  this  sacred  trial !  share  with  us 
The  day  of  penance  and  the  night  of  prayer! 
Humble  thyself;  feel  thine  own  wortlilossncss, 
A  reptile  worm,  before  thy  birth  condemn'd 
To  all  the  horrors  of  thy  Maker's  wrath. 
The  lot  of  fallen  mankind  !     Oil,  hither  come  I 
Humble  thyself  in  ashes.     So  thy  name 
Shall  live  amid  the  blessed  host  of  saints. 
And  unborn  pilgrims  at  thy  hallowed  shrine 
Pour  forth  their  pious  offerings." 

"  Hear  me,  father  !  " 
Exclaiin'd    the   awaken'd    Maid.      "  Amid    these 

Cold  as  their  clayey  tenants,  know,  my  heart 
Must  never  grow  to  stone  I  Chill  thou  thyself, 
And  break  thy  midniglit  rest,  and  tell  thy, 
And  Labor  through  thy  still  repeated  prayer ; 

Fear  thou  thy  God  of  Terrors ;  spurn  the  gifts 
lie  gave,  and  sepulchre  thyself  alive  I 
But  far  more  valued  is  the  vine  that  bends 
Bencatli  its  swelling  clusters,  tlian  the  dark 
And  joyless  ivy,  round  tlie  cloister's  wall 
Wreathing  its  barren  arms.     For  me,  I  know 
That  1  have  faithfully  obey'd  my  call. 
Confiding  not  in  mine  own  strength,  but  His 
Who  sent  me  forth  to  suffer  and  to  do 
His  will ;  and  in  tliat  faith  I  shall  appear 
Before  the  just  tribunal  of  that  God 
Whom  grateful  love  has  taught  me  to  adore  !' 

Severe  she  spalte,  for  sorrow  in  her  heart 
Had  wrought  unwonted  sternness.   From  the  dome 
They  pass'd  in  silence,  wlien,  with  hasty  steps, 
Sent  by  the  chiefs,  a  messenger  they  met, 
Who,  in  alarm,  the  mission'd  Virgin  sought, 
A  bearer  of  ill  tidings. 

"  Holy  Maid  !  " 
He  said,  "  they  ask  thy  counsel.     Burgundy 
Comes  in  the  cause  of  England,  and  his  troops 
Scarce  three  leagues  from  the  walls,  afearfnl  power, 
R-est  tented  for  the  night." 

"  Say  to  the  chiefs. 
At  morn  I  will  be  with  them,"   she  replied; 
"  And  to  this  urgency  will  give  meantime 
My  nightly  thoughts." 

So  saying,  on  she  went 
In  thoughtful  silence.     A  brief  while  she  musea, 
Brief,  but  sufficing  to  excite  her  soul, 
As  with  a  power  and  impulse  not  its  own. 
To  some  great  purpose.    "  Conrade  !  "  then  she  said, 
"  I  pray  thee  meet  me  at  the  eastern  gate 
With  a  swift  steed  prepared,  —  for  I  must  hence.  ' 

Her  voice  was  calm,  and   Conrade  through  the 

Saw  not  the  flush  that  witness'd  on  her  oheek 
Inward  emotion  at  some  thought  conceived. 
She  to  her  quarters  hastily  repair'd. 
There  with  a  light  and  unplumod  casquetcl  '^ 
She  helin'd   her  head  ;   hung  from  her   neck   the 

And  forth  she  went.     Her  Conrade  by  the  gate 
Awaited.     "  May  I,  Maiden,  ask  unblamed 
Whither  this  midnight  journey  .'  may  I  share 
The  peril  ?  "  cried  the  warrior.     She  rejoin'd, 
"  This,  Conrade,  must  not  be.     Alone  I  go. 
That  impulse  of  tlie  soul  which  comes  from  God 
Sends  me.     But  thou  of  this  remain  assured, 
If  aught  that  I  must  enterprise  required 
Associate  firmness,  thou  shouldst  be  the  man, 
Best,  —  last,  —  and  only  friend  !  " 

So  up  she  sprung 
And  left  him.     He  beheld  the  warden  close 
The  gate,  and  listcn'd  to  hor  courser's  tramp. 
Till  soon  upon  his  ear  the  far-off  sound 
Fell  faintly,  and  was  lost. 

Swift  o'er  the  vale 
Sped  the  good  courser ;  eagerly  the  Maid 
Gave  the  loose  rein;  and  now  her  speed  attain'd 
The  dark   encampment.     Tlirough    the    sleeping 

Onward  s;hc  past.     The  trampling  of  her  steed 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Or  mingled  witli  tlic  soldier's  busy  dreams, 
Or  with  vague  terrors  fill'd  his  startled  sense, 
Prompting  a  secret  prayer. 

So  on  she  past 
To  where  in  loftier  shade  arose  the  tent 
Of  Burgundy  :  light  leaping  from  her  seat 
She  enter'd. 

On  the  earth  the  chieftain  slept. 
His  mantle  scarft  around  him  ;  near  him  hung 
His  helmet  and  his  shield,  and  at  his  side 
Within  hand-reach  his  sword.     Profound  he  slept, 
Nor  heard  the  coming  courser's  sounding  hoof, 
Nor  entering  footstep.     "Burgundy!"  she  cried, 
"What,  Burgundy  !  awake  !  "     He  started  up. 
And  saw  the  gleam  of  arms,  and  to  his  sword 
Reach'd  a  quick  hand.     But  what  he  now  beheld 
TliriU'd  him,  for  full  upon  her  face  the  lamp 
Cast  its  deep  glare,  and  in  her  solemn  look 
Was  an  unearthly  meaning.     Pale  she  was ; 
And  in  her  eye  a  saintly  lustre  bcam'd. 
And  that  most  calm  and  holiest  confidence 
That  guilt  knows  never.     "  Burgundy,  thou  seest 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  !" 

As  she  spake,  a  voice 
Exclaim'd,  "  Die,  sorceress  !  "  and  a  knight  rush'd 

Whose  name  by  her  illustrated  yet  lives, 
Franquet  of  Arras.     With  uplifted  arm 
Furious  he  came ;  her  buckler  broke  the  blow, 
And  forth  she  flash'd  her  sword,  and  with  a  stroke 
Swift  that  no  eye  could  ward  it,  and  of  strength 
No  mail  might  blunt,  smote  on  his  neck,  his  neck 
Unfenced,  for  he  in  haste  aroused  had  cast 
An  armet'"  on;  resistless  there  she  smote, 
And  to  the  earth  prone  fell  the  headless  trunk 
Of  Franquet. 

Then  on  Burgundy  she  fi.x'd 
Her  eye  severe.     "  Go,  chief,  and  thank  thy  God 
That  he  with  lighter  judgments  visits  thee 
Than  fell  on  Sisera,  or  by  Judith's  hand 
He  wrought  upon  the  Assyrian!     Thank  thy  God, 
That  when  his  vengeance  smote  the  invading  sons 
Of  England,  equal  though  thou  wert  in  guilt. 
Thee  he  has  spar'd  to  work  by  penitence 
And  better  deeds  atonement." 

Thus  she  spake. 
Then  issued  forth,  and  bounding  on  her  steed 
Sped  o'er  the  plain.     Dark  on  the  upland  bank 
The  hedge-row  trees  distinct  and  colorless 
Rose  on  the  gray  horizon,  and  the  Loire 
Form'd  in  its  winding  way  islands  of  light 
Amid  the  shadowy  vale,  when  now  she  reach'd 
The  walls  of  Orleans. 

From  the  eastern  clouds 
The  sun  came  forth,  as  to  the  assembled  chiefs 
The  Maiden  pass'd.     Her  bending  thitherwards 
The  Bastard  met.     "  Now  perils  threaten  us," 
He  said,  "new  toils  await  us  ;  Burgundy,  —  " 

"Fear  not  for  Burgundy  ! ''  tlie  Maid  replied, 
"  Hi  in  will  the  Lord  direct.     Our  earliest  scouts 
Shall  tellhis  homeward  inarcli.    What  of  the  troops 
Of  England.?" 

"  They,"  the  Son  of  Orleans  cried, 
"  By  darkness  favor'd,  fled  ;  yet  not  by  flight 

Shall  these  invaders  now  escape  the  arm 
Of  retribution.     Even  now  our  troops. 
By  battle  unfatigued,  unsatisfied 
With  conquest,  clamor  to  pursue  the  foe." 

The  delegated  Damsel  thus  replied  : 
"  So  let  them  fly,  Dunois !  But  other  work 
Than  that  of  battle,  now  must  be  perform'd. 
We  move  not  in  pursuit,  till  we  have  paid 
The  rites  of  burial  to  our  countrymen, 
And  hymn'd  our  gratitude  to  that  All-just 
Who  gave  the  victory.     Thou,  meantime,  despatch 
Tidings  to  Chinon  :  let  the  King  set  forth, 
That  crowning  him  before  assembled  France, 
In  Rheims  delivered  from  the  enemy, 
I  may  accomplish  all." 

So  said  the  Maid, 
Then  to  the  gate  moved  on.    The  assembled  troops 
Belield  her  coming,  and  they  smote  their  shields, 
And  with  one  voice  of  greeting  bless'd  her  name, 
And  pray'd  her  to  pursue  the  flying  foe. 
She  waved  her  hand,  and  silently  they  stood. 
Attentive  while  she  spake ;  —  "  Fellows  in  arms  ! 
We  must  not  speed  to  joyful  victory. 
And  leave  our  gallant  comrades  where  they  lie. 
For  dogs,  and  wolves,  and  carrion-birds  a  prey ; 
Ere  we  advance,  let  us  discharge  to  them 
The  duty  that  is  due." 

So  said  the  Maid  ; 
And  as  she  spake,  the  thirst  of  battles  dies 
In  every  breast,  such  awe  and  love  pervade 
The  listening  troops.     They  o'er  the  corse-strewn 

Speed  to  their  sad  employment:  some  dig  deep 
The  house  of  death  ;  some  bear  the  lifeless  load  ; 
Others  the  while  search  carefully  around, 
If  haply  they  may  find  surviving  yet 
Some  wounded  viretches.     As  they  labor  thus. 
They  mark  far  off"  the  iron-blaze  of  arms  ; 
See  distant  standards  waving  on  the  air. 
And  hear  the  clarion's  clang.    Then  spake  the  Maid 
To  Conrade,  and  she  bade  him  haste  to  espy 
The  coming  army ;  or  to  meet  their  march 
With  friendly  greeting,  or  if  foes  they  came 
With  such  array  of  battle  as  short  space 
Allow'd  :  the  warrior  sped  across  the  plain. 
And  soon  beheld  the  banner 'd  lilies  wave. 

Their  chief  was  Richemont :  he  when  as  he  heard 
What  rites  employed  the  Virgin,  straightway  bade 
His  troops  assist  in  burial;  they,  though  grieved 
At  late  arrival,  and  the  expected  day 
Of  conquest  past,  yet  give  their  willing  aid  : 
They  dig  the  general  grave,  and  thither  bear 
English  or  French,  alike  commingled  now. 
And  heap  the  mound  of  death. 

Amid  the  plain 
There  was  a  little  eminence,  of  old 
Raised  o'er  some  honored  chieftain's  narrow  house. 
His  praise  the  song  had  ceased  to  celebrate. 
And  many  an  unknown  age  had  the  long  grass 
Waved  o'er  that  nameless  mound,  though  barren 

Beneath  the  frequent  tread  of  multitudes 
There  elevate,  the  martial  Maiden  stood. 

BOOK    X. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


MiT  brow  unlu'lm'd,  and  floatiuif  on  the  wind 
Her  long,  dark  locks.     The  silent  troops  around 
Stood  thickly  thronsr'd,  as  o'er  the  fertile  field 
JJillows  the  ripen'd  corn.     The  passing  breeze 
Bore  not  a  murmur  from  the  numerous  host, 
Such  deep  attention  held  them.     She  began. 

"  Glory  to  those  who  in  their  country's  cause 
Fall  in  the  field  of  battle  !     Countrymen, 
I  stand  not  here  to  mourn  these  gallant  men, 
Our  comrades,  nor,  with  vain  and  idle  phrase 
Of  sorrow  and  compassion,  to  console 
The  friends  who  loved  them.  They  indeed  who  fall 
Beneath  oppression's  banner,  merit  well 
Our  pity  ;  may  the  God  of  Peace  and  Love 
Be  merciful  to  those  blood-guilty  men 
Who  came  to  desolate  the  realm  of  France, 
To  make  us  bow  the  knee,  and  crouch  like  slaves 
Before  a  foreign  master.     Give  to  these, 
And  to  their  wives  and  orphan  little  ones 
That  on  their  distant  father  vainly  cry 
For  bread,  give  these  your  pity  !  —  Wretched  men, 
Forced  or  inveigled  from  their  homes,  or  driven 
By  need  and  hunger  to  the  trade  of  blood ; 
Or,  if  with  free  and  willing  mind  they  came, 
Most  wretched,  —  for  before  the  eternal  throne, 
Guilty  alike  in  act  and  will,  they  stand. 
But  our  dead  comrades  for  their  country  fought ; 
No  arts  they  needed,  nor  the  specious  bribes 
Of  promise,  to  allure  them  to  this  fight, 
This  holy  warfare  !  them  their  parents  sent. 
And  as  they  raised  their  streaming  eyes  to  Heaven, 
Bade  them  go  forth,  and  from  the  ruffian's  sword 
Save  their  gray  hairs  :  them  their  dear  wives  sent 

Fix'd  their  last  kisses  on  their  armed  hands, '"'- 
And  bade  them  in  the  battle  think  they  fought 
For  them  and  for  their  children.     Thus  inflamed, 
By  every  milder  feeling,  they  went  forth  : 
They  fought,  they  conquer'd.   To  this  holy  ground 
The  men  of  Orleans  in  the  days  to  come 
Shall  bring  their  boys,  and  tell  them  of  the  deeds 
Their  countrymen  achieved,  and  bid  them  learn 
Like  them  to  love  their  country,  and  like  them. 
Should  usurpation  pour  again  its  tide 
Of  desolation,  to  step  forth  and  stem, 
Fearless,  the  furious  torrent.     Men  of  France, 
Mourn  not  for  these  our  comrades  !  boldly  they 
Fought  the  good  fight,  and  that  Eternal  One, 
Who  bade  the  Angels  harbinger  his  Word 
With '  Peace  on  earth,'  rewards  them.    We  survive, 
Honorincr  their  memories  to  avenge  their  fall 
Upon  the  unjust  invaders.     They  may  drain 
Their  kingdom's  wealth  and  lavishly  expend 
Its  blood,  insanely  thinking  to  subdue 
This  wide  and  populous  realm ;  for  easier  were  it 
To  move  the  ancient  mountains  from  their  base. 
Than  on  a  nation  knowing  its  own  strength 
To  force  a  foreign  yoke.     France  then  is  safe. 
My  glorious  mission  soon  will  be  fulfill'd, 
My  work  be  done.     But,  oh  !  remember  ye, 
And  in  their  generation  let  your  sons 
Transmit  to  theirs  the  all-concerning  truth. 
That  a  great  people,  wrongfully  assail'd, 
If  faithful  to  themselves,  and  resolute 

In  duty  to  the  last,  betide  what  may,  — 
Although  no  signs  be  given,  no  miracles 
Vouchsafed,  as  now,  no  Prophetess  ordain'd, 
May  yet  with  hope  invincible  hold  on. 
Relying  on  their  courage,  and  their  cause, 
And  the  sure  course  of  righteous  Providence." 


Thus  to  the  martyrs  in  their  country's  cause 
The  Maiden  gave  their  fame  ;  and  when  she  ceased, 
Such  murmur  from  the  multitude  arose, 
As  when  at  twilight  hour  the  summer  breeze 
Moves  o'er  the  elmy  vale.     There  was  not  one 
Who  mourn'd  with  feeble  sorrow  for  his  friend, 
Slain  in  tlie  fight  of  freedom ;  or  if  chance 
Remembrance  with  a  tear  suft'used  the  eye, 
The  patriot's  joy  shone  through. 

And  now  the  rites 
Of  sepulture  perform'd,  the  hymn  to  Heaven 
They  chanted.     To  the  town  the  Maid  return'd, 
Dunois  with  her,  and  Richemont,  and  the  man 
Conrade,  whose  converse  most  the  Virgin  loved. 
They  of  pursuit  and  of  the  future  war 
Sat  communing ;  when  loud  the  trumpet's  voice 
Proclaim'd  a  herald's  coming. 

"To  the  Maid,"  — 
Such  was  his  errand,  —  "  and  to  thee,  Dunois, 
Son  of  the  chief  he  loved,  Du  Chastel  sends 
Greeting.     Tlic  aged  warrior  hath  not  spared 
All  active  efforts  to  partake  your  toil. 
And  serve  his  country ;  and  though  late  arrived, 
He  share  not  in  the  fame  your  arms  acquire, 
His  heart  is  glad  that  he  is  late  arrived. 
And  France  preserved  thus  early.     He  were  here 
To  join  your  host,  and  follow  the  pursuit, 
But  Richemont  is  his  foe.     To  tiiat  high  Lord 
Thus  says  my  master  :  We,  though  each  to  each 
Be  hostile,  are  alike  the  embattled  sons 
Of  our  dear  country.     Therefore  do  thou  join 
The  conquering  troops,  and  prosecute  success ; 
I  will  the  while  assault  what  guarded  towns 
Bedford  yet  holds  in  Orleannois  :  one  day, 
Perhaps  the  Constable  of  France  may  learn 
He  wrong'd  Du  Chastel." 

As  the  herald  spake, 
Richemont's  cheek  redden'd,  partly  with  a  sense 
Of  shame,  and  partly  anger  half  supprest. 
"  Say  to  thy  master,"  eagerly  he  said, 
"  I  aju  the  foe  of  those  court  parasites 
Who  poison  the  King'sear.     Him  who  shall  serve 
Our  country  in  the  field,  1  hold  my  friend  : 
Such  may  Du  Chastel  prove." 

So  said  the  chief 
And  pausing  as  the  herald  went  his  way, 
Turn'd  to  the  Virgin  :  "  If  1  guess  aright, 
It  is  not  from  a  friendly  tongue's  report, 
That  thou  hast  heard  of  me." 

Dissembling  not 
The    unwelcome    truth,    "  Yes,   chieflain '.  "    shf 

"  Report  bespeaks  thee  haughty,  violent, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    X. 

Suftorino;  no  rival,  hrookinir  no  control, 

And  executing  hy  unrighteous  means 

The  judgments  of  thine  own  unlawful  will." 

"  But  hear  me,  Maid  of  Orleans  !  "  ho  exclaim'd  : 
"  Should  the  wolf  enter  thy  defenceless  flock, 
Vv'cre  it  a  crime  if  t!iy  more  mighty  force 
Destroy'd  the  fell  destroyer?     If  thy  hand 
Had  slain  a  ruHKtu  as  he  burst  thy  door 
I'repared  for  midnight  murder,  sliould'st  thou  feel 
The  weight  of  blood  press  heavy  on  thy  souP 
1  slew  Ihc'  wolves  of  stat",  the  murderers 
Of  thousands.     Joan  !  when  rusted  in  its  sheath 
The  sword  of  justice  hung,  blamest  thou  the  man 
That  lent  his  weapon  for  the  righteous  deed  ?  " 

Conrade  replied,  "  Nay,  Richeniont,  it  were  well 
To  slay  the  ruffian  as  he  burst  thy  doors; 
But  if  he  bear  the  plunder  safely  thence, 
And  thou  should'st  meet  him  on  the  Riture  day, 
V^engeance  must  not  be  thine :  there  is  the  law 
To  punish  ;  and  the  law  alloweth  not, 
That  th(!  accuser  take  upon  himself 
The  judge's  part;  still  less  doth  it  allow 
That  he  should  execute  upon  the  accused 
Untried,  unheard,  a  sentence,  which  so  given 
Becomes,  whate'er  the  case,  itself  a  crime." 

"Thou  hast  said  wisely,"  cried  the  Constable  ; 
"  But  there  are  guilty  ones  above  the  law. 
Men  whose  black  crimes  exceed  the  utmost  bound 
Of  private  guilt ;  court  vermin  that  buzz  round. 
And  fly-blow  the  King's  ear,  and  make  him  waste. 
In  this  most  perilous  time,  his  people's  wealth 
And  blood ;  immersed  one  while  in  sensual  sloth. 
Heedless  though  ruin  threat  the  realm  they  rule  ; 
And  now  projecting  some  mad  enterprise, 
Sending  their  troops  to  sure  defeat  and  shame. 
These  are  the  men  who  make  the  King  suspect 
His  wisest,  faithfulest,  best  counsellors ; 
And  for  themselves  and  their  dependents,  seize 
All  places,  and  all  profits  ;  and  they  wrest 
To  their  own  ends  the  statutes  of  the  land. 
Or  safely  break  them ;  thus,  or  indolent, 
Or  active,  ruinous  alike  to  France. 
Wisely  thou  sayest,  warrior,  that  the  Law 
Should  strike  the  guilty  ;  but  the  voice  of  Justice 
Cries  out,  and  brings  conviction  as  it  cries, 
Whom  the  laws  cannot  reach,  the  dagger  should." 

The  Maid  replied,  "  It  secmeth  then,  O  Chief, 
That  reasoning  to  thine  own  conviction  thus. 
Thou  standest  self-acquitted  of  all  wrong, 
Self-justified,  yea,  self-approved.     I  ask  not 
Whether  this  public  zeal  hath  look'd  askaunt 
To  private  ends ;  men  easily  deceive 
Others,  and  oft  more  easily  themselves. 
But  what  if  one  reasoning  as  thou  hast  done 
Had  in  like  course  proceeded  to  the  act, 
One  of  the  people,  one  of  low  degree. 
In  whom  the  strong  desire  of  public  good 
Had  grown  to  be  his  one  sole  sleepless  thought, 
A  passion,  and  a  madness;  raised  as  high 
Above  all  sordid  motives  as  thyself; 
Beneath  such  impulses  of  rivalry 

And  such  ambitious  projects,  as  perforce 

Men  will  impute  to  thee  r  had  such  a  man 

Stood  forth  the  self-appointed  minister 

To  execute  his  own  decrees  of  death. 

The  law  on  him  had   rightfully  enforced 

That  sentence,  which  the  Almighty  hath  enjoin'd 

Of  life  for  life.     Thou,  chief,  art  by  thy  rank 

And  power  exempted  from  the  penalty  : 

What  then  hast  thou  exampled,  —  right  and  wrong 

Confounding  thus,  and  making  lawless  might 

The  judge  in  its  own  quarrel .'     Trust  me,  chief, 

That  if  a  people  sorely  are  oppress'd. 

The  dreadful  hour  of  overthrow  will  come 

Too  surely  and  too  soon  !     He  best  meanwhile 

Performs  the  sage's  and  the  patriot's  part. 

Who  in  the  ear  of  rage  and  faction  breathes 

The  healing  words  of  love." 

Thus  communed  they. 
Meantime,  all  panic-struck  and  terrified. 
The  English  urge  their  flight;  by  other  thoughts 
Possess'd  than  when,  elate  with  arrogance. 
They  dreamt  oi'c()n(]ucst,nnd  the  crown  of  France 
At  their  disj)osal.     Of  their  hard-fought  fields, 
Of  glory  hardly  earn'd,  and  lost  with  sliame, 
Of  friends  and  brethren  slaughter'd,  and  the  fate 
Threatening  themselves,  they  brooded  sadly,  now 
Repentant  late  and  vainly.     They  whom  fear 
Erst  made  obedient  to  their  conquering  march. 
Rise  on  them  in  defeat,  while  they  retire, 
Marking  their  path  with  ruin,  day  by  day 
Leaving  the  weak  and  wounded  destitute 
To  the  foe's  mercy;  thinking  of  their  home, 
Though  to  that  far-off"  prospect  scarcely  hops 
Could  raise  a  sickly  eye.     Oh  then  what  joy 
Inspired  iinew  their  bosoms,  when,  like  clouds 
Moving  in  shadows  down  the  distant  hill. 
They  saw  their  coming  succors  !      In  each  heart 
Doubt  raised  a  busy  tumult ;  soon  they  knew 
The  English  standard,  and  a  general  shout 
Burst  from  the  joyful  ranks  :  yet  came  no  joy 
To  Talbot :  he,  with  dark  and  downward  brow. 
Mused  sternly,  till  at  length  aroused  to  hope 
Of  vengeance,  welcoming  his  gallant  son, 
He  brake  a  sullen  smile. "^ 

"  Son  of  my  age, 
Welcome  young  Talbot  to  thy  first  of  fields. 
Thy  father  bids  thee  welcome,  though  disgraced, 
Baffled,  and  flying  from  a  woman's  arm  I 
Yes,  by  my  former  glories,  from  a  woman  ! 
The  scourge  of  France,  the  conqueror  of  men, 
Flying  before  a  woman  !     Son  of  Talbot, 
Had  the  winds  wafted  thee  a  few  days  sooner, 
Thou  hadst  seen  me  high  in  honor,  and  thy  name 
Alone  had  scatter'd  armies  ;  yet,  my  son, 
I  bid  thee  welcome  !  here  we  rest  our  flight. 
And  face  again  the  foe." 

So  spake  the  chief; 
And  well  he  counsell'd  :  for  not  yet  the  sun 
Had  reach'd  meridian  height,  when  o'er  the  plain 
Of  Patay,  they  beheld  the  troops  of  France 
Speed  in  pursuit.     Soon  as  the  troops  of  France 
Beheld  the  dark  battalions  of  the  foe 
Shadowing  the  distant  plain,  a  general  shout 
Burst  from  the  expectant  host,  and  on  they  prest, 
Elate  of  heart  and  eager  for  the  fight, 

BOOK    X. 

JOAN    OF   ARC, 


With  clamors  ominous  of  victory. 
Thus  urging  on,  one  t'rtxii  the  adverse  host 
Advanced  to  meet  tiiem  -.  tliey  his  garb  of  peace 
Knew,  and  they  halted  as  tlie  herald  spake 
His  bidding  to  the  chieftains.     "  Sirs  !"  lie  cried, 
'•  1  bear  detlance  to  you  from  tlic  Earl 
William  of  Sutiblk.     Here  on  this  fit  ground, 
He  wills  to  give  you  battle,  power  to  power. 
So  please  you,  on  the  morrow." 

"  On  the  morrow 
We  will  join  battle  then,'  replied  Dunois, 
"And    God  befriend   the  right!"    Then   on  the 

A  robe  rich-furr'd  and  embroidered  he  bestow'd,"-* 
A  costly  guerdon.     Througli  the  army  spread 
The  unwelcome  tidings  of  delay  ;  posscss'd 
With  agitating  hopes  they  felt  the  liours 
Pass  heavily  ;  but  soon  the  night  waned  on, 
And  the  loud  trumpets'  blare  from  broken  sleep 
Roused  them  ;  a  second  time  tlie  thrilling  blast 
Bade  them  be  arin'd,  and   at  the  third  long  sound 
They  ranged  them  in  their  ranks. '■'^     From  maji  to 

With  pious  haste  hurried  the  confessors 
To  shrive  them,'"^  lest  with  souls  all  unprepared 
They  to  their  death  might  go.     Dunois  meantime 
Rode  through  the  host,  the  shield  of  dignity ''' 
Before  him  borne,  and  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  white  wand  of  command.     The  open  helm 
Disclosed  that  eye  which  temper'd  the  strong  lines 
Of  steady  valor,  to  obedient  awe 
Winning  the  will's  assent.     To  some  he  spake 
Of  late-earn'd  glory  ;  others,  new  to  war. 
He  bade  bethink  them  of  the  feats  achieved 
When  Talbot,  recreant  to  his  former  fame. 
Fled  from  beleaguer'd  Orleans.     Was  there  one 
Whom  he  had  known  in  battle .'  by  the  hand 
Him  did  he  take,  and  bid  him  on  that  day 
Summon  his  wonted  courage,  and  once  more 
Support  his  chief  and  comrade.     Happy  he 
Who  caught  his  e}'e,  or  from  the  chieftain's  lips 
Heard  his  own  name  !  joy  more  inspiriting 
Fills  not  the  Persian's  soul,  when  sure  he  deems 
That  Mitlira  hears  propitiously  his  prayer, 
And  o'er  the  scattered  cloud  of  morning  pours 
A  brighter  ray  responsive. 

Then  the  host 
Partook  due  food,  tliis  tlieir  last  meal  belike 
Receiving  with  such  thoughtful  doubts  as  make 
The  soul,  impatient  of  uncertainty. 
Rush  eager  to  the  event ;  being  thus  prepared, 
Upon  the  grass  the  soldiers  laid  themselves. 
Each  in  his  station,  waiting  there  the  sound 
Of  onset,  that  in  undiininish'd  strength 
Strong,  they  might  meet  the  battle ; '"'  silent  some 
Pondering  the  chances  of  the  coining  day, 
Some  wliiling  with  a  careless  gaycty 
The  fearful  pause  of  action. 

Thus  the  French 
In  such  array  and  high  in  confident  hope 
Await  the  signal ;  whilst  with  other  thoughts. 
And  ominous  awe,  once  more  the  invadino-  liost 
Prepare  them  in  the  field  of  fight  to  meet 
The  Prophetess.     Collected  m  himself 
Appear'd  the  might  of  Talbot.     Through  the  ranks 

He  stalks,  reminds  them  of  their  former  fame. 
Their  native  land,  their   homes,  the  friends  they 

All  the  rewards  oi'  this  day's  victory. 
But  awe  had  fill'd  the  English,  and  they  struck 
Faintly  their  shields;  for  they  who  had  beheld 
The  hallowed  banner  with  celestial  light 
Irradiate,  and  the  mission'd  ftlaiden's  deeds, 
Felt  their  hearts  sink  within  them  at  the  thougiit 
Of  her  near  vengeance ;  and  the  tale  they  told 
Roused  such  a  tumult  in  the  new-come  troops. 
As  fitted  them  for  fear.     The  aged  Earl 
Beheld  their  drooping  valor,  and  his  brow, 
Wrinkled     with     thought,    bewray'd   his    inward 

doubts : 
Still  he  was  firm,  though  all  might  fly,  resolved 
That  Talbot  should  retrieve  his  old  renown. 
And  end  liis  life  with  glory.     Yet  some  hope 
Inspired  the  veteran,  as,  across  the  plain 
Casting  his  eye,  he  mark'd  the  embattled  strength 
Of  thousands;  archers  of  unequalled  skill, 
Brigans  and  pikcmen,  from  whose  lifted  points 
A  fearful  radiance  flash'd,  and  young  esquires. 
And  high-born  warriors,  bright  in  blazon'd  arms. 

Nor  few,  nor  faineless  were  the  English  chiefs. 
In  many  a  field  victorious,  he  was  there. 
The  garter'd  Fastolffe;  Huntjerford,  and  Scales, 
Men  who  had  seen  the  hostile  squadrons  fly 
Before  the  arms  of  England;  Suffolk  there, 
The  haughty  chieftain,  tower'd  ;  blest  had  he  fallen 
Ere  yet  a  courtly  minion  he  was  mark'd 
By  public  hatred,  and  the  murderer's  guilt ! 
There  too  the  son  of  Talbot,  young  in  arms. 
Heir  of  a  noble  race  and  mighty  name  : 
At  many  a  tilt  and  tournament  had  he 
Approved  his  skill  and  prowess;  confident 
In  strength,  and  jealous  of  his  future  fame, 
His  heart  beat  higli  for  battle.     Such  array 
Of  marshall'd  numbers  fought  not  on  the  field 
Of  Cressy,  nor  at  Poictiers ;  nor  such  force 
Led  Henry  to  the  fight  of  Agincourt, 
When  thousands  fell  before  him. 

Onward  move 
The  host  of  France.     It  was  a  goodly  sight 
To  see  the  embattled  pomp,  as  with  the  step 
Of  stateliness  the  barded  steeds  came  on, — 
To  see  the  pennons  rolling  their  long  waves 
Before  the  gale,  and  banners  broad  and  bright '"' 
Tossing  their  blazonry,  and  high-plumed  chiefs, 
Vidames,  '""^  and  Seneschalls,  and  Chastellains, 
Gay  with  their  buckler's  gorgeous  heraldry, 
And  silken  surcoats  to  the  mid-day  sun 

And  now  the  knights  of  France  dismount, 
For  not  to  brutal  strength  they  deem'd  it  right 
To  trust  their  fame  and  their  dear  country's  weal ;  '^^ 
Rather  to  inatily  courage,  and  the  glow 
Of  honorable  thoughts,  such  as  inspire 
Ennobling  energy.     Unhorsed,  unspurr  d, 
Their  javelins  shorten'd  to  a  wieldy  length,"^ 
They  to  the  foe  advanced.     The  Maid  alone. 
Conspicuous  on  a  coal-black  courser,  meets 
The  war.     They  moved  to  battle  with  such  sound 
As  rushes  o'er  the  vaulted  firmament, 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 

BOOK    X. 

When  from  his  seat,  on  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven 
That  overhangs  the  void,  tlie  Sire  of  Winds, 
HrcBsvelger  starting,"*"*  rears  his  giant  bulk, 
And  from  his  eagle  pinions  shakes  the  storm. 

High  on  her  stately  steed  the  martial  Maid 
Rode  foremost  of  the  war  ;  her  burnisli'd  arms 
Shone  like  the  brook  that  o'er  its  pebbled  course 
Runs  glittering  gayly  to  the  noon- tide  sun. 
The  foaming  courser,  of  her  guiding  hand 
Impatient,  smote  the  earth,  and  toss'd  his  mane. 
And  rear'd  aloft  with  many  a  froward  bound. 
Then  answered  to  the  rein  witli  such  a  step, 
As,  in  submission,  he  were  proud  to  show 
His  spirit  unsubdued.     Slow  on  the  air 
Waved  the  white  plumes  that  shadow'd  o'er  her 

Even  such,  so  fair,  so  terrible  in  arms, 
Pelides  moved  from  Scyros,  where,  conceal'd, 
He  lay  obedient  to  his  mother's  fears 
A  seemly  damsel ;  thus  the  youth  appear'd 
Terribly  graceful,  when  upon  his  ni-ck 
Deidameia  hung,  and  with  a  look 
That  spake  the  tumult  of  her  troubled  soul. 
Fear,  anguish,  and  upbraiding  tenderness, 
Gazed  on  the  father  of  her  unborn  babe. 

An  English  knight,  who,  eager  for  renown. 
Late  left  his  peaceful  mansion,  mark'd  the  Maid. 
Her  power  miraculous  and  portentous  deeds 
He  from  the  troops  had  heard  incredulous. 
And  scofF'd  their  easy  fears,  and  vow'd  that  he. 
Proving  the  magic  of  this  dreaded  girl 
In  equal  battle,  would  dissolve  the  spell, 
Powerless  opposed  to  valor.     Fortli  he  spurr'd 
Before  the  ranks  ;  she  mark'd  the  coming  foej 
And  fi.x'd  her  lance  in  rest,  and  rush'd  along. 
Midway  they  met;  full  on  her  buckler  driven, 
Shiver'd  the  English  spear :  her  better  force 
Drove  the  brave  foeman  senseless  from  his  seat. 
Headlong  he  fell,  nor  ever  to  the  sense 
Of  shame  awoke  ;  for  crowding  multitudes 
Soon  crush'd  the  helpless  warrior. 

Then  the  Maid 
Rode  through  the  thickest  battle;  fast  they  fell. 
Pierced  by  her  forceful  spear.     Amid  the  troops 
Plunged  her  strong  war-horse,  by  the  noise  of  arms 
Elate  and  roused  to  rage,  he  tramples  o'er. 
Or  with  the  lance  protended  from  his  front,"** 
Thrusts  down  the  thronging  squadrons.     Where 

she  turns. 
The  foe  tremble  and  die.     Such  ominous  fear 
Seizes  the  traveller  o'er  the  trackless  sands. 
Who  marks  the  dread  Simoom  across  the  waste 
Sweep  its  svi^ift  pestilence  :  to  earth  he  falls. 
Nor  dares  give  utterance  to  the  inward  prayer. 
Deeming  the  Genius  of  the  desert  breathes 
The  purple  blast  of  death. 

Such  was  the  sound 
As  when  a  tempest,  mingling  air  and  sea, 
Flies  o'er  the  uptorn  ocean  :  dashing  high 
Their  foamy  heads  amid  the  incumbent  clouds. 
The  madden'd  billows  witli  their  deafening  roar 
Drown  the  loud  thunder's  peal.     In  every  form 
Of  horror,  death  was  there.     They  fall,  transfix'd 

By  the  random  arrow's  point,  or  fierce-thrust  lance, 
Or  sink,  all  battered  by  the  ponderous  mace : 
Some  from  their  coursers  thrown,  lie  on  the  earth, 
Helpless  because  of  arms,  that  weak  to  save. 
Lengthened  the  lingering  agonies  of  death. 
But  most  the  English  fell,  by  their  own  fears 
Betray'd,  for  fear  the  evil  that  it  dreads 
Increaseth.     Even  the  chiefs,  who  many  a  day 
Had  met  the  war  and  conquer'd,  trembled  now, 
Appall'd  before  the  Maid  miraculous. 
As  the  blood-nurtur'd  monarch  of  the  wood. 
That  o'er  the  wilds  of  Afric  in  his  strength 
Resistless  ranges,  when  the  mutinous  clouds 
Burst,  and  the  lightnings  through  the  midnightsky 
Dart  their  red  fires,  lies  fearful  in  his  den. 
And  howls  in  terror  to  the  passing  storm. 

But  Talbot,  fearless  where  the  bravest  fear'd, 
Mow'd  down  the  hostile  ranks.  The  chieftain  stood 
Like  a  strong  oak,  amid  the  tempest's  rage. 
That  stands  unharm'd,  and  while  the  forest  falls 
Uprooted  round,  lifts  his  high  head  aloft. 
And  nods  majestic  to  the  warring-  wind. 
He  fought,  resolved  to  snatch  the  shield  of  death  *"^ 
And  shelter  him  from  shame.     The  very  herd 
Who  fought  near  Talbot,  though  the  Virgin's  name 
Made  their  cheeks  pale  and  drove  the  curdling 

Back  to  their  hearts,  caught  from  his  daring  deeds 
New  force,  and  went  like  eaglets  to  the  prey 
Beneath  their  mother's  wing  :  to  him  they  look'd. 
Their  tower  of  strength,"''  and  follow'd  where  his 

Made  through  the  foe  a  way.     Nor  did  the  son 
Of  Talbot  shame  his  lineage  ;  by  his  sire 
Emulous  he  strove,  like  the  young  lionet 
When  first  he  bathes  his  murderous  jaws  in  blood. 
They  fought  intrepid,  though  amid  their  ranks 
Fear  and  confusion  triumph'd ;  for  such  dread 
Possess'd  the  English,  as  the  Etruscans  felt, 
When  self-devoted  to  the  infernal  gods 
The  awful  Decius  stood  before  the  troops. 
Robed  in  the  victim  garb  of  sacrifice, 
And  spake  aloud,  and  call'd  the  shadowy  powers 
To  give  to  Rome  the  conquest,  and  receive 
Their  willing  prey  ;  then  rush'd  amid  the  foe. 
And  died  upon  the  hecatombs  he  slew. 

But  hope  inspired  the  assailants.     Xaintrailles 
Spread  fear  and  death,  and  Orleans'  valiant  son 
Fougiit  as  when  Warwick  fled  before  his  arm. 
O'er  all  preeminent  for  hardiest  deeds 
Was  Conrade.     Where  he  drove  his  battle-axe. 
Weak  was  the  buckler  or  the  helm's  defence, 
Hauberk,  or  plated  mail ;  through  all  it  pierced. 
Resistless  as  the  fork'd  flash  of  heaven. 
The  death-doom'd  foe,  who  mark'd   the  coming 

Felt  such  a  chill  run  through  his  shivering  frame, 
As  the  night-traveller  of  the  Pyrenees, 
Lone  and  bewilder'd  on  his  wintry  way, 
When  from  the  mountains  round  reverberates 
The  hungry  wolves'  deep  yell :  on  every  side, 
Their  fierce  eyes  gleaming  as  with  meteor  fires, 

BOOK    X. 

JOAN    OF    ARC. 


T)ie  faiiiish'd    pack  come   round  ;    the  affrighted 

Snorts  loud  wiUi  terror,  on  his  shuddering  limbs 
The  big  sweat  starts,  convulsive  pant  his  sides, 
Then  on  he  gallops,  wild  in  desperate  speed. 
Ilim  dealing  death  an  English  knight  beheld, 
And   spurr'd   his  steed    to  crush    him ;    Conrade 

Lightly  aside,  and  through  the  warrior's  greaves 
Fix'd  a  deep  wound  :  nor  longer  could  the  foe, 
Disabled  thus,  command  his  mettled  horse, 
Or  his  rude  plunge  endure  ;  headlong  he  fell. 
And  perisii'd.     In  his  castle  hall  was  hung 
On  high  his  father's  shield,  with  many  a  dint 
Graced  on  the  glorious  field  of  Agincourt. 
His  deeds  the  son  had  heard ;  and  when  a  boy. 
Listening  delighted  to  the  old  man's  tale, 
His  little  hand  would  lift  the  weighty  spear 
In  warlike  pastime :  he  had  left  behind 
An  infant  offspring,  and  had  fondly  deein'd 
He  too  in  age  the  exploits  of  his  youth 
Should  tell,  and  in  the  stripling's  bosom  rouse 
The  fire  of  glory. 

Conrade  the  next  foe 
Smote  where  the  heaving  membrane  separates 
The  chambers  of  the  trunk.     The  dying  man, 
In  his  lord's  castle  dwelt,  for  many  a  year, 
A  well-beloved  servant:  he  could  sing 
Carols  for  Shrove-tide,  or  for  Candlemas, 
Songs  for  the  wassail,  and  when  the  boar's  head, 
Crow'n'd  with  gay  garlands  and  with  rosemary. 
Smoked  on  the  Christmas  board  :  ^*''  he  went  to  war 
Following  the  lord  he  loved,  and  saw  him  fall 
Beneath  the  arm  of  Conrade,  and  expired, 
Slain  on  his  master's  body. 

Nor  the  fight 
Was  doubtful  long.     Fierce  on  the  invading  host 
Press  the  French  troops  impetuous,  as  of  old, 
When  pouring  o'er  his  legion  slaves  on  Greece, 
The  eastern  despot  bridged  the  Hellespont, 
The  rushing  sea  against  the  mighty  pile 
RoU'd  its  full  weight  of  waters;  far  away 
The  fearful  Satrap  mark'd  on  Asia's  coasts 
The  floating  fragments,  and  with  ominous  fear 
Trembled  for  the  great  king. 

Still  Talbot  strove. 
His  foot  firm  planted,  his  uplifted  shield 
Fencing  that  breast  which  never  yet  had  known 
The  throb  of  fear.     But  when  the  warrior's  eye, 
Glancing  around  the  fight,  beheld  the  French 
Pressing  to  conquest,  and  his  heartless  troops 
Striking  with  feebler  force  in  backward  step. 
Then  o'er  his  cheek  he  felt  the  indignant  flush 
Of  shame,  and  loud  he  lifted  up  his  voice, 
.And  cried,  "  Fly,  cravens  !  leave  your  aged  chief 
Here  in  the  front  to  perish  !  his  old  limbs 
Are  not  like  yours,  so  supple  in  the  flight."" 
Go  tell  your  countrymen  how  ye  escaped 
When  Talbot  fell !  " 

In  vain  the  warrior  spake ; 
In  the  uproar  of  the  fight  his  voice  was  lost ; 
And  they,  the  nearest,  who  had  heard,  beheld 
The  Prophetess  approach,  and  every  thought 
Was  overwhelm'd  in  terror.     But  the  son 
Of  Talbot  mark'd  lier  thus  across  the  plain 

Careering  fierce  in  conquest,  and  the  hope 

Of  glory  rose  within  him.     Her  to  meet 

He  spurr'd  his  horse,  by  one  decisive  deed 

Or  to  retrieve  the  battle,  or  to  fall 

With  honor.     Each  beneath  the  other's  blow 

Bow'd  down  ;  their  lances  shiver'd  with  the  shock  : 

To  earth  their  coursers  fell :  at  once  they  rose. 

He  from  the  saddle-bow  his  falchion  caught  '* 

Rushing  to  closer  combat,  and  she  bared 

The  lightning  of  her  sword.'"'     In  vain  the  youth 

Essay 'd  to  pierce  those  arms  which  even  the  power 

Of  time  was  weak  to  injure  :  she  the  while 

Througii    many    a   wound   beheld    her    foeman's 

Ooze  fast.  "Yet  save  thyself!  "  the  Maiden  cried. 
"  Me  thou  canst  not  destroy  :  be  timely  wise. 
And  live  !  "     He  answer'd  not,  but  lifting  high 
His  weapon,  smote  with  fierce  and  forceful  arm 
Full  on  the  Virgin's  helm  :  fire  from  her  eyes 
Fhish'd  with  the  stroke  :  one  step  she  back  recoil'd, 
Then  in  his  breast  plunged  deep  the  sword  of  death. 

Talbot  beheld  his  fall ;  on  the  next  foe. 
With  rage  and  anguish  wild,  the  warrior  turn'd: 
His  ill-directed  weapon  to  the  earth 
Drove  down  the  unwounded  Frank:    he    strikes 

And  through  his  all-in-vain  imploring  hands 
Cleaves  the  poor  suppliant.     On  that  dreadful  day 
The  sword  of  Talbot,'"*  clogg'd  with  hostile  gore, 
Made  good  its  vaunt.     Amid  the  heaps  his  arm 
Had  slain,  the  chieftain  stood  and  sway'd  around 
His  furious  strokes:  nor  ceased  he  from  the  fight. 
Though  now,  discomfited,  the  English  troops 
Fled  fast,  all  panic-struck  and  spiritless. 
And  mingling  with  the  routed,  Fastolffe  fled, 
Fastolfl'e,  all  fierce  and  haughty  as  he  was,'"-* 
False  to  his  former  fame  ;  for  he  beheld 
The  Maiden  rushing  onward,  and  such  fear 
Ran  through  his  frame,  as  thrills  the  African, 
When,  grateful  solace  in  the  sultry  hour. 
He  rises  on  the  buoyant  billow's  breast. 
And  then  beholds  the  inevitable  shark 
Close  on  him,  open-mouth'd. 

But  Talbot  now 
A  moment  paused,  for  bending  thitherward 
He  mark'd  a  warrior,  such  as  well  might  ask 
His  utmost  force.     Of  strong  and  stately  port 
The  onward  foeman  moved,  and  bore  on  high 
A  battle-axe,'"''  in  many  a  field  of  blood 
Known  by  the  English  chieftain.     Over  heaps 
Of  slaughter'd,  he  made  way,  and  bade  the  troops 
Retire  from  the  bold  Earl :  then  Conrade  spake. 
"  Vain  is  tliy  valor,  Talbot !  look  around. 
See  where  thy  squadrons  fly  !  but  thou  shalt  lose 
No  honor,  by  their  cowardice  subdued. 
Performing  well  thyself  the  soldier's  part." 

"And  let  them  fly!"  the  indignant  Earl  ex- 
"  And  let  them  fly  !  and  bear  thou  witness,  chief 
That  guiltless  of  this  day's  disgrace,  I  fall. 
But,  Frenchman  !  Talbot  will  not  tamely  fall, 
Nor  unrevenged." 

So  saying,  for  the  war 


JOAN    OF    ARC, 

BOOK    X, 

He  stood  prepared  :  nor  now  with  heedless  rage 
Tlie  chainpiuiis  Ibught,  for  either  knew  lull  well 
His  focman's  prowess  :  now  they  aim  the  blow 
Insidious,  with  quick  change  then  drive  the  steel 
Fierce  on  the  side  exposed.     The  unfaithful  arms 
Yield  to  the  strong-driven  edge ;  the  blood  streams 

Their   batter'd    mail.     With   swift  eye    Conrade 

Tlie  lifted  buckler,  and  beneath  impell'd 
His  battle-axe;  that  instant  on  his  helm 
The  sword  of  Talbot  fell,  and  with  the  blow 
It  broke.  "  Yet  yield  thee,  Englishniaii !  "  exclaim'd 
The  generous  Frank  ;  "  vain  is  this  bloody  strife  : 
Me  should'st  thou  conquer,  little  would  my  death 
Avail  thee,  weak  and  wounded  !  " 

"  Long  enough 
Talbot  has  lived,"  replied  the  sullen  chief: 
"  His  hour  is  come  ;  yet  shalt  not  thou  survive 
To  glory  in  his  fall !  "     So,  as  he  spake, 
He  lifted  from  the  ground  a  massy  spear, 
And  came  again  to  battle. 

Now  more  fierce 
The  conflict  raged,  for  careless  of  liiinself, 
And  desperate,  Talbot  fought.    Collected  still 
Was  Conrade.     Wheresoe'er  his  foeman  aim'd 
The  well-thrust  javelin,  there  he  svifung  around 
His  jruardian  shield  :  the  long  and  vain  assault 

to  O 

Exhausted  Talbot  now;  foredone  with  toil, 
He  bare  his  buckler  low  for  weariness ; 
The  buckler,  now  splintcr'd  with  many  a  stroke,''^ 
Fell  piecemeal;  from  his  riven  arms  the  blood 
Stream'd  fast :  and  now  the  Frenchman's  battle- 
Came  unresisted  on  the  shieldless  mail. 
But  then  he  held  his  hand.     "  Urge  not  to  death 
This  fruitless  contest !  "  he  exclaim'd  :  "  oh  chief! 
Are  there  not  those  in  England  who  would  feel 
Keen  anguish  at  thy  loss.^  a  wife  perchance 
Who  trembles  for  thy  safety,  or  a  child 
Needing  a  father's  care  !  " 

Then  Talbofs  heart 
Smote  him.     "  Warrior  !  "  he  cried,  "  if  tliou  dost 

til  ink 
That  life  is  worth  preserving,  hie  thee  hence, 
And  save  thyself:  I  loathe  this  useless  talk." 

So  saying,  he  address'd  him  to  the  fight, 
Impatient  of  existence  :  from  their  arms 
Fire  flash'd,  and  quick  they  panted;  but  not  long 
Endured  the  deadly  combat.     With  full  force 
Down  through  his  shoulder  even  to  the  chest, 
Conrade  impell'd  the  ponderous  battle-axe; 
And  at  that  instant  underneath  his  shield 
Received  the  hostile  spear.     Prone  fell  the  Earl, 
Even  in  his  death  rejoicing  that  no  foe 
Should  live  to  boast  his  fall. 

Then  with  faint  hand 
Conrade  unlaced  his  helm,  and  from  his  brow 
Wiping  the  cold  dews  ominous  of  death. 
He  laid  him  on  the  earth,  thence  to  remove, 
While  the  long  lance  hung  heavy  in  his  side, 
Powerless.     As  thus  beside  his  lifeless  foe 
He  lay,  the  herald  of  the  English  Earl 
With  faltering  step  drew  near,  and  when  he  saw 

His  master's  arms,  "  Alas !  and  is  it  you. 

My  lord  .'  "  he  cried.  "  God  pardon  you  your  sins  ! 

1  have  been  forty  years  your  officer, 

And  time  it  is  1  should  surrender  now 

The  ensigns  of  my  office  !  "     So  he  said. 

And  paying  thus  his  rite  of  sepulture. 

Threw  o'er  the  slaughter'd  chief  his  blazon'd  coat.'"* 

Then  Conrade  thus  bespake  him  :  "  Englishman, 
Do  for  a  dying  soldier  one  kind  act! 
Seek  for  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  bid  her  haste 
Hither,  and  thou  shalt  gain  what  recompense 
It  pleaseth  thee  to  ask." 

The  herald  soon. 
Meeting  the  mission'd  Virgin,  told  his  tale. 
Trembling  she  hasten'd  on,  and  when  she  knew 
The  death-pale  face  of  Conrade,  scarce  could  Joan 
Lift  up  the  expiring  warrior's  heavy  hand, 
And  press  it  to  her  heart. 

"  I  sent  for  thee. 
My  friend !  "  with  interrupted  voice  he  cried, 
"  That  I  might  comfort  this  my  dying  hour 
With  one  good  deed.     A  fair  domain  is  mine  ; 
Let  Francis  and  his  Isabel  possess 
That,  mine  inheritance."     He  paused  awhile. 
Struggling   for   utterance ;    then  with   breathless 

And  pale  as  him  he  mourn'd  for,  Francis  came. 
And  hung  in  silence  o'er  the  blameless  man. 
Even  with  a  brother's  sorrow :  he  pursued, 
"  This,  Joan,  will  be  thy  care.     I  have  at  home 
An  aged  mother  —  Francis,  do  thou  soothe 
Her  childless  age.     Nay,  weep  not  for  me  thus : 
Sweet  to  the  wretched  is  the  tomb's  repose  !  " 

So  saying,  Conrade  drew  the  javelin  forth, 
And  died  without  a  groan. 

By  this  the  scouts, 
Forerunning  the  king's  march,  upon  the  plain 
Of  Patay  had  arrived,  of  late  so  gay 
With  marshall'd  thousands  in  their  radiant  arms, 
And  streamers  glittering  in  the  noon-tide  sun. 
And  blazon'd  shields  and  gay  accoutrements. 
The  pageantry  of  war ;  but  now  defiled 
With  mingled  dust  and  blood,  and  broken  arms, 
And  mangled  bodies.     Soon  the  monarch  joins 
His  victor  army.     Round  the  royal  flag, 
Uprear'd  in  conquest  now,  the  chieftains  flock, 
Profiering  their  eager  service.     To  his  arms, 
Or  wisely  fearful,  or  by  speedy  force 
Compell'd,  the  embattled  towns  submit  and  own 
Their  rightful  king.     Baugenci  strives  in  vain ; 
Yenville  and  Mehun  yield;  from  Sully's  wall 
Hurl'd  is  the  banner'd  lion :  on  they  pass, 
Auxerre,  and  Troyes,  and  Chalons,  ope  their  gates, 
And  by  the  mission'd  Maiden's  rumor'd  deeds 
Inspirited,  the  citizens  of  Rheims 
Feel  their  own  strength ;  against  the  English  troops 
With  patriot  valor,  irresistible. 
They  rise,  they  conquer,  and  to  their  liege  lord 
Present  the  city  keys. 

The  morn  was  fair 
When  Rheims  reechoed  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  multitudes,  for  high  solemnity 
Assembled.     To  the  holy  fabric  moves 

BOOK    X. 

JOAN    OF    ARC, 


The  long  procession,  Ihrougli  tlie  streets  bestrewn 
With  flowers  and   laurel    boujrhs.     The    courtier 

Were  there,  and  they  in  Orleans,  who  endured 
Tlie  siege  right  bravely  ;  Gaucour,  and  La  Hire, 
The  gallant  Xaintrailles,  Boussac,  and  Chabannes, 
Alen^on,  and  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
The  Bastard  Orleans,  now  in  hope  elate, 
Soon  to  release  from  hard  captivity 
J  lis  dear-beloved  brother;  gallant  men. 
And  worthy  of  eternal  memory. 
For  tliey,  in  the  most  perilous  times  of  France, 
Despair'd  not  of  their  country.     By  the  king 
The  delegated  Damsel  pass'd  along 
Clad  in  her  batter"d  arms.     She  bore  on  high 
Ilcr  hallow'd  banner  to  the  sacred  pile. 
And  fi.x'd  it  on  the  altar,  whilst  her  hand 
Pour'd  on  the  monarch's  head  the  mystic  oil,'^^ 
Wafted  of  yore,  by  milk-white  dove  from  heaven, 
(So  legends  sav,)  to  Clovis  when  he  stood 
At  Rhcims  for  baptism  ;  dubious  since  that  day, 
When  Tolbiac  plain  reek'd  with  his  warrior's  blood. 
And  fierce  upon  their  flight  the  Ahnanni  prcst, 
And  rear'd  the  shout  of  triumph:  in  that  hour 
Clovis  invoked  aloud  the  Christian  God 
And  conquer'd :  waked  to  wonder  thus,  the  chief 
Became  love's  convert,  and  Clotilda  led 
Her  husband  to  the  font. 

The  raission'd  Maid 
Then  placed  on  Charles's  brow  the  crown  of  France, 
And  back  retiring,  gazed  upon  the  king 
One  moment,  quickly  scanning  all  the  past. 
Till,  in  a  tumult  of  wild  wonderment. 
She  wept  aloud.     The  assembled  multitude 
In  awful  stillness  witness'd ;  then  at  o-nce. 
As  with  a  tempest-rushing  noise  of  winds, 
Lifted  their  mingled  clamors.     Now  the  Maid 
Stood  as  prepared  to  speak,  and  waved  her  hand, 
And  instant  silence  followed. 

"  King  of  France !  " 
She  cried,  "at  Chinon,  when  my  gifted  eye 
Knew  thee  disguised,  what  inwardly  the  spirit 
Prompted.  I  promised,  with  the  sword  of  God, 
To  drive  from  Orleans  far  the  English  wolves, 
And  crown  thee  in  the  rescued  walls  of  Rheims. 
All  is  accomplish'd.     I  have  here  this  day 
Fulfill'd  my  mission,  and  anointed  tiiee 
King  over  this  great  nation.     Of  this  charge. 
Or  well  ])erform'd  or  carelessly,  that  God 
Of  Whom  tliou  boldest  thine  authority 
W^ill  take  account ;  from  Him  all  power  derives. 
Thy  dutv  is  to  fear  the  Lord,  and  rule. 
According  to  His  word  and  to  the  laws. 
The  people  thus  committed  to  thy  charge  : 
Theirs  is  to  fear  Him  and  to  honor  Thee, 
And  with  that  fear  and  honor  to  obey 
In  all  things  lawful ;  both  being  thus  alike 
By  duty  bound,  alike  restricted  botii 
From  wilful  license.     If  thy  heart  be  set 
To  do  His  will  and  in  His  ways  to  walk, 
I  know  no  limit  to  the  happiness 
Thou  may'st  create.     1  do  beseech  thee.  King !  " 
Tiie  Maid  exclaim'd,  and  fell  upon  the  ground. 
And  clasp'd  his  knees,  '■  I  do  beseech  thee,  King' 
By  all  the  thousands  that  depend  on  thee. 

For  weal  or  woe,  —  consider  what  thou  art. 

By  Wliom  appointed  !     If  thou  dost  oppress 

Thy  people,  if  to  aggrandize  thyself  [them 

Thou  tcar'st  them  from  their  homes,  and  seiidest 

To  slaughter,  prodigal  of  misery  ; 

If  when  the  widow  and  the  orphan  groan 

In  want  and  wretcliedness,  thou  turnest  thee 

To  hear  the  music  of  the  flatterer's  tongue  ; 

If,  when  thouhear'st  of  thousands  who  have  fallen, 

Tliou  say  st,  '  I  am  a  King  !  and  fit  it  is 

That  these  should  perish  for  me;' — if  thy  realm 

Should,  tiirough  the  counsels  of  thy  government, 

Be  find  with  woe,  and  in  thy  streets  be  heard 

The  voice  of  mourning  and  the  feeble  cry 

Of  asking  hunger  ;  if  in  place  of  Law 

Iniquity  prevail ;  if  Avarice  grind 

The  poor;  if  discipline  be  utterly 

Rclax'd,  Vice  charter'd,  Wickedness  let  loose; 

Thougl)  in  the  general  ruin  all  must  share, 

E.ich  answer  for  his  own  peculiar  guilt. 

Yet  at  the  Judgment-day,  from  those  to  whom 

The  power  was  given,  the  Giver  of  all  power 

Will  call  for  rigliteous  and  severe  account. 

Choose  thou  the  better  part,  and  rule  the  land 

In  rigliteousness  ;  in  righteousness  th}'  throne 

Sliall  then  be  stabllsh'd,  not  by  foreign  foes 

Shaken,  nor  by  domestic  enemies, 

But  guarded  then  by  loyalty  and  love. 

True  hearts,  Good  Angels,  and  All-seeing  Heaven. 

Thus  spake  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  solemnly 
Accomplishing  her  marvellous  mission  here. 


Note  1,  p.  13,  col.  I.— The  Bastard  Orleans. 

"  liCwes  duke  of  Orlcance  inurthereil  in  Paris,  by  Jlion 
duke  of  Bur^oyiie,  was  owner  of  tlie  castle  of  Coney,  on  the 
frontiers  of  Fraunce  toward  Artlioys,  whereof  lie  made  con- 
stable the  lord  of  Canny,  a  man  not  so  wise  as  his  wifo  was 
laire,  and  yet  she  was  not  so  faire,  but  she  was  as  well  be- 
loved of  the  duke  of  Orloance,  as  of  her  husband.  Betwenc 
the  duke  and  hrr  husband  (I  cannot  tell  who  was  Otther),  she 
conceived  a  child,  and  brought  furtlie  a  prety  boye  called  Jhon, 
wliicho  child  bryinj;  of  the  age  of  one  yere,  the  duke  deceased, 
and  not  long  after  the  mother  and  the  lord  of  Cawny  bnded 
their  lives.  The  next  of  kynne  to  the  lord  Cawny  chalenged 
the  inheritaunce,  which  was  worth  foure  thousande  crounes  a 
yere,  alledgyng  that  the  boye  was  a  bastard  :  and  the  kynred 
of  the  niother'a  side,  for  to  save  her  honesty,  it  plainly  denied. 
In  conclusion,  this  matter  was  in  contencion  before  the  presi- 
dentes  of  the  parliament  of  Paris,  and  there  hang  in  contro- 
versio  till  the  child  came  to  the  age  of  eight  years  old.  At 
whiclie  tyme  it  was  demanded  of  hym  openly  whose  Sonne  he 
was  ;  his  frendes  of  his  mother's  side  advertised  hym  to  re- 
quire a  day,  to  he  advised  of  so  great  an  answer,  whiche  ho 
asked,  and  to  hym  it  was  granted.  In  the  mean  season,  his 
said  frendes  persuaded  him  to  claiine  his  inheritance  as  sonno 
to  the  lorde  of  Cawny,  wliiche  was  an  honorable  livyng,  and 
an  auncient  patrimony,  aflinning  that  if  he  saiil  contrary,  he 
not  only  slaundered  his  mother,  shamed  hymsclf,  and  stained 
his  bloud,  but  also  should  have  no  livyng,  nor  any  thing  to 
lake  to.  The  scholemaster  Ihinkyng  that  his  disciple  had 
well  learned  his  lesson,  and  would  rehearse  it  according  to 
his  instruccion,  brought  hym  before  the  judges  at  the  daio 
assigned,  and  when  the  question  was  repeted  to  hym  again, 
he    boldly  answered,  "  My  harte    geveth  me,  and    my  tonge 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

telleth  mc,  that  I  am  the  sonne  ofthe  noble  duke  of  Orlcaunce, 
more  glad  to  be  his  bastarde,  with  a  meane  livyng,  than  the 
lawful  Sonne  of  that  coward  cuckoldo  Cawny,  with  his  four 
rjiousand  crownes."  The  judges  much  marvelled  at  his  bolde 
answcre,  and  his  mother's  cosyns  detested  hyrn  for  shaniyng 
of  his  mother,  and  his  father's  supposed  kinne  rejoysed  in 
gaining  the  patrimony  and  possessions.  Cliarles  duke  of 
Urieaunce  heryng  of  this  judgment,  took  hym  into  his  family, 
and  gave  hym  greute  ollices  and  fees,  whiche  he  well  deserved, 
for  (during  his  captivitie),  he  defended  his  landos,  expulsed 
the  Englirthmon,  and  in  conclusion,  procured  his  deliverance. 
~IfaU,ff.  104. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Shakespeare  had  this  anecdote 
in  his  mind  when  ho  wrote  the  first  scene  wherein  the  bastard 
Falconbridge  is  introduced. 

When  the  duke  of  Orleans  was  so  villanously  assassinated 
by  order  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  the  murder  was  thought  at 
first  to  have  been  perpetrated  by  sir  Aubert  do  Canny,  says 
Monstrellet,  (Jolmes's  translation,  vol.  i.  p.  198,)  from  the 
groat  hatred  he  bore  the  duke  for  having  carried  off  his  wife  ; 
but  llie  truth  was  soon  known  who  were  the  guilty  persons, 
and  that  sir  Aul)ert  was  perfectly  innocent  ofthe  crime.  Ma- 
rietta d'Enguien  was  the  name  ofthe  adulteress. 

"  On  rapportc  que  la  duchcsse  d^  Orleans,  Valentine  de  Milan, 
priticcssc  celebrc  par  son  esprit  et  par  son  courage,  ayant  d  la 
nouvelle  de  la  morte  sanglante  de  son  cpoui,  rassemllc  toute  sa 
innison  ct  les  principauL  seigneurs  de  son  parti,  Icur  addressa  ces 
paroles :  '  Qiti  de  vous  marehcra  le  premier  pour  vcnger  la  mart 
da  frerc  de  son  Roy  ?  '  Frappe  de  terreur,  chacun  gardait  un 
mnrne  silence.  Indigne  de  voir  que  personne  ne  rcpondit  d  ce 
nohle  appii,  le  petit  Jean  d'  Orleans  {Dunois),  alors  &ge  de  sex 
ans  ct  dcmi,  s'avanga  tout  d  coup  an  milieu  de  Vassemblce,  et 
s^ccria  dhine  coix  animce  :  '  Ce  sera  moy,  madame,  etje  me  mon- 
slreray  digne  d'estre  son  fils.'  DrpuU  ce  moment,  Valentine 
oubliant  la  naissance  illcgitime  de  ce  jeune  prince,  avait  congu 
pour  lui  une  affection  vrainient  maternelle.  On  lui  avait  en- 
tendu  dire  au  lit  de  la  mart,  et  par  une  rspece  de  presentiment 
de  la  grandeur  future  de  ce  herns,  '  Qu'i7  lay  avoit  cstc  emhle, 
et  qu'il  n'y  avoit  nul  do  ses  nifans  qui  fust  si  hien  taille  a  venger 
la  mart  dc  son  pcrc.^  Cette  ardeur  de  vengeance  Ventrahia 
mime  d'abord  trop  loin,  et  c'cst  d  pcu  pres  I'unique  reproche 
qu'on  puisse  faire  a  la  jcunessc  de.  ce  guemer.  11  se  vanta 
quetquefois,  dans  la  premiere  moitic  de  sa  vie  d^aroir  immole  de 
sa  main  dix  mille  Bourguignons  aux  mclnes  dc  son  pcre.^' 

Le  Brun  de  Charmentes,  t.  i.  99. 

Note   2,  p.   13,   col.  1 .  —  Cheir^d  with  the   Trohador's  sweet 

Liorraine,  according  to  Cliaucer,  was  famous  for  its  singers. 
There  mightest  thou  se  these  flutours, 
Minstrallis  and  eke  jogelours. 
That  vvel  to  singin  did  ther  paine  ; 
Some  songin  songis  of  Loraine, 
For  in  Loraine  ther  notis  be 
Full  swetir  than  in  this  centre. 

Romaunt  ofthe  Rose. 
No  mention  is  made  of  the  Lorraine  songs  in  the  corre- 
iponding  lines  ofthe  original. 

Ld  estoicnt  herprurs,  Jlcutcurs, 
Et  de  moult  d'instrumens  jongleurs ; 
Les  xins  disoient  chansons  faictes, 
Les  aulres  nottes  nouvellcttes. 

V.  770—3. 

Note  3,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  Gainsaying  what  she  sought. 

The  following  account  of  Joan  of  Arc  is  extracted  from 
a  history  ofthe  siege  of  Orleans,  prise  de  mot  d  mot,  sans  aucun 
changcment  de  langage,  d'un  vieil  exemplaire  cscrit  a  la  main  en 
parchemin,  et  trouvc  en  la  maison  dc  la  dicte  villc  d'  Orleans. 
Tioyes.  162L 

•^  Or  en  ce  temps  avoit  une  jeune  file  au  pais  de  Lorraine,  aagee 
de  dii-huict  ans  ou  environ,  nommre  Janne,  natifue  d'un  paroisse 
nomine  Dompre,fillc  d'un  Laboureur  nomine  Jacques  Tart ;  qui 
jamais  n'aroit  fait  autre  chose  quegarder  les  bestes  aux  champs,  a 
la  quelle,  ainsi  qu'rlle  disoit,  avoit  esti  reveli  qui  Dieu  vovloit 
qu'elle  allast  dcvers  le  Roi  Charles  septirsme,  pour  luy  aider  ct  le 
conseiller  a  recouvrer  son  royaume  et  ses  villes  et  places  que  les 
Anglois  avoient  conquises  en  ses  pays.     La  quelle  revelation  elle 

n'osa  dire  ses  pere  et  mere,  pource  qu'cUe  sgavoit  bicn  que  jamais 
n'eussent  conscnty  qu'elle  yfusl  allee  ;  et  le  prr.-ruada  tant  qu'il  la 
mena  devers  un  geiitelhoiiune  nomme  Messire  Robert  de  Baudri- 
court,  qui  pour  lors  estoit  Cappitaine  de  la  rille,  on  chasleau  de 
Vaucauleur,  qui  est  assci  proehain  dc  la  :  auquel  elle  pria  Ires 
instanment  qu'il  la  fist  mencr  devers  le  Roy  de  France,  en  leur 
disant  qu'il  estoit  tres  necessairc  qu'elle  partast  a  luy  pour  le  lien 
de  son  royaume,  et  que  elle  luy  feroit  grand  sccimrs  et  aide  a  re- 
eouvrer  son  diet  royaume,  et  que  Dieu  le  vouluit  ainsi,  ct  que  U 
luy  avoit  estc  rcvele  pur  plusirursfuis.  Des  quclles  parollis  U 
ne  faisiiit  que  rire  et  se  mocqatr  et  la  rcpuloit  incensee:  toutes- 
fois  elle  persevera  tant  et  si  longucment  qu'il  luy  bailla  un  gen- 
telhomme,  nomme  Ville  Robert,  itquclquc  nombre  de  gens,  les  quels 
la  menerent  devers  le  Roy  que  pour  lors  estoit  a  Chinon." 

Note  4,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  Of  eighteen  years. 

This  agrees  with  the  account  of  her  age  given  by  Holinshed, 
who  calls  her  "  a  young  wench  of  an  eighteene  years  old  ;  of 
favour  was  she  counted  likesome,  of  person  stronglie  made  and 
manlie,  of  courage  great,  bardic,  and  stout  withall ;  an  undcr- 
stander  of  counsels  though  she  were  not  at  them,  greet  sem- 
blance of  chastitie  both  of  bodie  and  behaviour,  liie  name  of 
Jesus  in  hir  mouth  about  all  her  businesses,  humble,  obedient, 
and  fasting  divers  days  in  the  weeke."  —  Holinshed,  GOO. 

De  Serres  speaks  thus  of  her :  "  A  young  maiden  named 
Joan  of  Arc,  born  in  a  village  upon  the  Marches  of  Barre 
called  Domremy,  neere  to  Vaucouleurs,  ofthe  age  of  eighteene 
or  twenty  years,  issued  from  base  parents,  her  father  was 
named  James  of  Arc,  and  her  mother  Isabel,  poore  country 
folkes,  who  had  brought  her  up  to  keep  their  cattell.  She 
said  with  great  boldnesse  that  she  had  a  revelation  how  to 
succour  the  king,  how  he  might  be  able  to  chase  the  English 
from  Orleance,  and  after  that  to  cause  the  king  to  be  crowned 
at  Rheims,  and  to  put  him  fully  and  wholly  in  possession  of 
his  realme. 

"  After  she  had  delivered  this  to  her  father,  mother,  and 
their  neighbors,  she  presumed  to  go  to  the  lord  of  Baudri- 
court,  provost  of  Vaucouleurs  ;  she  boldly  delivered  unto  him, 
after  an  extraordinary  manner,  all  these  great  mysteries,  as 
much  wished  for  of  all  men  as  not  hoped  for:  especially  com- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  a  poore  country  maide,  whom  they 
might  with  more  reason  beleeve  to  be  possessed  of  some  mel- 
ancholy humour,  than  divinely  inspired  ;  being  the  instriunent 
of  so  many  excellent  remedies,  in  so  desperat  a  season,  after 
the  vaine  striving  of  so  great  and  famous  personages.  At  the 
first  he  mocked  and  reproved  her,  but  having  heard  her  with 
more  patience,  and  judging  by  her  temperate  discourse  and 
modest  countenance  tliat  she  s])oke  not  idely,  in  the  end  he 
resolves  to  present  her  to  the  king  for  his  discharge.  So  she 
arrives  at  Chinon  the  sixt  day  of  May,  attired  like  a  man. 

"She  had  a  modest  countenance,  sweet,  civill,and  resolute  ■ 
her  discourse  was  temperate,  reasonable  and  retired,  her  ac 
tions  cold,  shewing  great  chastity.  Having  spoken  to  the 
king,  or  noblemen  with  whom  she  was  to  negociate,  she 
presently  retired  to  her  lodging  with  an  old  woman  that  guided 
her,  without  vanity,  affectation,  babling  or  courtly  lightnes^^e. 
These  are  the  manners  which  the  Original  attributes  to  her." 

Edward  Grimeston,  the  translator,  calls  her  in  the  margin, 
"  Joane  the  Virgin,  or  rather  Witch." 

^^0TE  5,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  Lest  he  in  wrath  confound  me. 

Then  the  word  ofthe  Lord  came  unto  me,  saying,  "  Before 
I  formed  thee  in  the  belly,  I  knew  thee  :  and  before  thou 
camest  forth  out  ofthe  v\'omb  I  sanctified  thee,  and  I  ordained 
thee  a  prophet  unto  the  nations." 

Then  said  I,  Ah,  Lord  God,  behold  I  cannot  speak,  for  I 
am  a  child. 

But  the  Lord  said  unto  me,  Say  not,  I  am  a  child,  for  thou 
shall  go  to  all  that  I  shall  send  thee,  and  whatsoever  I  com- 
mand thee,  thou  shalt  speak. 

Thou  therefore  gird  up  thy  loins,  and  arise,  and  speak  unto 
them  all  that  I  command  thee  :  be  not  dismayed  at  their  faces, 
lest  I  confound  thee  before  them.  —  Jeremiah,  chap.  i. 

Note  6,  p.  14,  col.  2. —  Tauglit  wisdom  to  mankind! 
But  as  for  the  mighty  man,  he  had  the  e.'>rth,  and  the  honor- 
able man  dwelt  in  it. 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Days  should  speak,  and  multitude  of  years  should  teach 
wis.lom. — Job.  

Note  7,  p.  14,  col.  2.  —  Rusk  o'er  the  land,  and  desolate,  and  kill. 
'•  While  tha  English  and  French  contend  for  dominion, 
sovereignty  and  life  itself,  men's  goods  in  France  were  vio- 
lently taken  by  the  license  of  war,  churches  spoiled,  men  every 
where  murthercd  or  wounded,  others  put  to  death  or  tortured, 
matrons  ravished,  maids  forcibly  drawn  from  out  their  parents' 
arms  to  bo  dyllowered  ;  towns  daily  taken,  daily  spoyled, 
d:uly  defaced,  the  riches  of  the  inhabitants  carried  whether  the 
conipierors  think  good  ;  houses  and  villa,'es  round  about  set  on 
tire,  no  kind  of  cruelty  is  left  unpractised  ujion  tlie  miserable 
French,  omitting  many  hundred  kind  of  otiier  calamities  which 
all  at  once  oppressed  them.  Add  here  unto  that  the  com- 
monwealth, being  destitute  of  the  help  of  laws  (which  for  the 
mo<t  part  are  mute  in  limes  of  war  and  mutiny),  floateth  up 
and  down  without  any  anchorage  at  right  or  justice.  Neither 
W.1S  England  herself  void  of  these  mischiefs,  who  every  day 
heard  the  news  of  her  valiant  children's  funerals,  slain  in  per- 
petual skirmishes  and  bickerings,  her  general  wealth  con- 
tinually ebbed  and  wained,  so  that  the  evils  seemed  almost 
equal,  and  the  whole  western  world  echoed  the  groans  and 
sighs  of  either  nation's  quarrels,  being  the  common  argument 
of  speech  and  compassion  through  Christendom."  —  Speed. 

Note  8,  p.  15,  col.  1.  — there,  in  Vic  hamlet  Arc, 

.My  father's  dwelling  stands. 

When  Montaigne  saw  it  in  1580,  the  front  of  the  house  was 
covered  with  paintings  representing  the  history  of  the  Maid. 
lie  says,  Ses  descendans  furent  annohlis  par  faveur  dii  Roi,  el 
nous  monstrarent  Us  amies  que  Ic  Roi  leur  donna,  qui  soiit  d'azur 
d  lui'  e-fpde  droite  couronnce  et  poigiiee  d'or,  et  deux  ficurs  de  lis 
d'or  au  cote  de  ladite  espce  ;  de.  quoy  un  rcctveur  de  yaucouleur 
donna  un  escussnn  peint  d  M.  dc  Casclis.  Le  dcvant  de  la 
maisonnette  od  cUe  naquit  est  toutc  pclntc  de  scs  gestrs ;  mais 
I'aage  en  a  fort  corrumpu  la  poiiiture.  II  y  a  ausfi  un  nhre  Id 
long  d'unc  vigne  qu'on  nommp  I' afire  de  la  PacvUe,  qui  n'a  nidle 
autre  chose  d  rcmerquer.  —  Voyages  dc  Montaigne,  i.  p.  17. 

Ce  n'ctait  qu'une  maisunnttle ;  et  cepcndant  elle  a  subsiste 
jusqu'  d  nos  jours,  grace  au  zcle  natinnaldu  maire  ctdcshabitans 
de  Domremy,  qui  pendant  les  dernicres  nnnecs  du  gouvernement 
imperial,  voyant  qu'on  refusait  dc  leur  allouer  la  somme  neccssaire 
pour  son  entretien,  y  suppleirait  par  une  souscription  volontaire ; 
tant  le  respect  et  la  veneration  que  les  vertus  inspiratt,  peuvcnt 
quelquefois  prolonger  la  durce  drs  monumens  les  plus  simples  ct 
les  plus fragiles.  —  Le  Brun  dc  Charmettes,  t.  i.  244. 

It  appears,  however,  that  whatever  might  be  the  respect  and 
veneration  of  the  inhabitants  for  this  illustrious  heroine  and 
martyr,  they  allowed  the  cottage  in  which  she  was  born  to  be 
villanously  desecrated,  very  soon  after  their  national  feeling 
had  been  thus  praised.  The  author,  whose  book  was  published 
only  in  the  second  year  (1817)  after  the  overthrow  of  the  Im- 
perial Government,  adds  the  following  note  to  this  passage  : 
Drpuis  I'epoque  oii  ce  passage  a  etc  ccrit,  il  parait  que  les  choses 
sontfort  changies.  On  lit  ce  qui  suit  dans  le  JVarrateur  de  la 
Meuse :  "  Les  chambres  oii  logerent  cclte  heroine  it  ses  parens 
sont  converties  en  itables ;  dc  vils  animauz  occupcnt  I'nnplace- 
ment  du  lit  de  Jeanne  i'Arc.  son  armoire  vermouluc  revferme  des 
ustensilea  d'ecurie."  

Note  9,  p.  15,  col.  1.  —  By  day  I  drove  my  father' s  jlork  afield. 

"  People  found  out  a  nest  of  miracles  in  her  education,  says 
old  Fuller,  that  so  lion-Iikc  a  spirit  should  be  bred  among 
aheep  like  David."  

Note  10,  p.  15,  col.  1 .  —  With  gorse  flowers  glowing,  as  the  sun 
Their  golden  glory. 

It  is  said  that  when  Linnieus  was  in  England,  he  was  more 
(truck  with  the  splendid  appearance  of  the  furze  in  blossom, 
than  with  any  other  of  our  native  plants.  — Mrs.  Bray's  Letters, 
i.  316. 

Note  11,  p.  15,  col.  2. 

-  Death '.  to  the  happnj  thou  art  terrible  ; 
But  how  the  wretched  lore  to  think  of  thee, 
0  thou  true  comforter,  the  friend  of  all 
Who  have  no  friend  beside ! 

O  Death,  how  bitter  is  tho  remembrance  of  thee  to  a  man 
that  liveth  at  rest  in  his  possessions,  unto  the  man  that  hath 
nothing  to  vex  him,  and  that  hath  prosperity  in  all  things  , 
yea  unto  him  that  is  yet  able  to  receive  meat ! 

O  Death,  acceptable  is  thy  sentence  unto  tho  needy,  nn^l 
unto  him  whose  strength  faileth,  that  is  now  in  the  last  age, 
and  is  vexed  with  all  things,  and  to  him  that  despaireth,  and 
hath  lost  patience  '.  —  Kcclesiasticus,  xli.  1,  2. 

Note  12,  p.  10,  col.  2. —  Think  well  of  this,  young,man! 

Dreadful  indeed  must  have  been  the  miseries  of  the  French 
from  vulgar  plunderers,  when  the  manners  of  the  highest 
classes  were  marked  by  hideous  grossness  and  vices  that  may 
not  he  uttered. 

"  Of  acts  so  ill  examples  are  not  good." 

Sir  William  Alexander. 
Yet  it  may  be  right  to  justify  the  saying  in  the  text  by  an 
extract  from  the  notes  to  .Andrews's  History  of  Great  Uritain. 
"Agricola  quilihet,  ."ponsam  juvenem  aequisitus,  ac  in  vicinia 
alicujus  iri  nobilis  et  pr<ppulentis  hahitans,  crudelis.^me  vera- 
tabur.  M'empc  nvnnunquam  in  ejus  domum  irrucns  i.<ite  optimeu", 
magna  comitante  catervct,  pretium  ingeiis  redemptiottis  eiigereti 
ac  si  non  protinus  solveret  colonus,  ustum  miscrum  in  mnfpia  area 
protrudens,  venustm  ac  tenerce  uzori  sua  {super  ipsam  arcam 
proslrata:)  vim  vir  vobilis  adferret ;  voce  exclamans  horrenda, 
'  Aadine  Rustice !  jamjam,  super  hanc  arcam  constirpratur 
dilecta  tua  sponsa  ! '  atque  prracto  hoc  scelere  ncfando  relinque- 
retur  (horrcsco  referens)  suffocationc  erpirans  marilus,  nisi 
magna  prctio  sponsa  nuper  vitiata  liberationem  ejus  rcdimc- 
ret."  —  J.  de  Paris. 

Let  us  add  to  this  the  detestable  history  of  a  great  com- 
mander under  Charles  VII.  of  France,  the  bastard  of  Kourbon, 
who  (after  having  committed  the  most  execrable  crimes  during 
a  series  of  years  with  impunity)  was  drowned  in  114 1,  by  the 
constable  Kichcmont,  (a  treacherous  assassin  himself,  hut  a 
mirror  of  justice  when  compared  to  some  of  his  contenipora 
ries,)  on  its  being  proved  against  him  "  Quod  super  ipsum 
maritum  vi  prostratum,  uiori,  frustrarepugnanti,  vim  adiulerat. 
Ensuite  il  aroit  fait  battre  et  dccouper  le  mari,  tant  que  c'ctoit 
pitic  a  voir."  —  Mem.  de  Richnmont . 

Note  13,  p.  16,  col.  2.  —  Think  that  there  are  such  horrors. 

I  translate  the  following  anecdote  of  the  Black  Prince  from 
Froissart :  — 

The  Prince  of  Wales  was  about  a  month,  and  not  longer, 
before  the  city  of  Lymoges,  and  he  did  not  assault  it,  but 
always  continued  mining.  When  the  miners  of  the  prince 
had  finished  their  work,  they  said  to  him,  "  Sir,  we  will  throw 
down  a  great  part  of  the  wall  into  the  moat  whenever  it  shall 
please  you,  so  that  you  may  enter  into  the  city  at  your  ease, 
without  danger."  These  words  greatly  pleased  the  prince, 
who  said  to  them,  "  I  chuse  that  your  work  should  be  mani- 
fested to  morrow  at  the  hour  of  day-break."  Then  the  miners 
set  fire  to  their  mines  the  next  morning  as  the  prince  had 
commanded,  and  overthrew  a  great  pane  of  the  wall,  which 
filled  the  moat  where  it  had  fallen.  The  English  saw  all  this 
very  willingly,  and  they  were  there  all  armed  and  ready  to 
enter  into  tho  town  ;  those  who  were  on  foot  could  enter  at 
their  ease,  and  they  entered  and  ran  to  the  gate  and  heat  it  to 
the  earth  and  all  the  barriers  also  ;  for  there  was  no  defence, 
and  all  this  was  done  so  suddenly,  that  the  people  of  the  town 
were  not  upon  their  guard.  And  then  you  might  have  seen 
the  prince,  the  duke  of  Lancaster,  the  count  of  Canlerbnrv, 
the  count  of  Pembroke,  Messire  Guischart  Dangle,  and  all  the 
other  chiefs  and  their  people  who  entered  in  ;  and  ruffians  on 
foot  who  were  prepared  to  do  mischief,  and  to  run  through  the 
town,  and  to  kill  men  and  women  and  children,  and  so  they 
had  been  commanded  to  do.  There  was  a  full  pitiful  sight, 
for  men  and  women  and  children  cast  themselves  on  their  knees 
before  the  prince  and  cried  "  mercy  !  "  hut  he  was  so  enflamcd 
with  so  great  rage,  that  he  heard  them  not ;  neither  man  nor 
woman  would  he  hear,  but  they  were  all  put  to  tho  &word 
wherever  they  were  found,  and  these  people  had  not  been 
guilty.  I  know  not  how  they  could  have  no  pity  upon  poor 
people,  who  had  never  been  powerful  enough  to  do  any  trea- 
son. There  was  no  heart  so  hard  in  the  city  of  Lymoges 
which  had  any  remembrance  of  God,  that  did  not  lament  the 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

great  mischief  that  was  there  ;  for  more  than  three  thousand 
men  and  women  and  eliiklren  were  put  to  death  that  day  ; 
God  has  tlieir  souls,  for  indeed  they  were  martyred.  In  en- 
tering' llie  town  a  party  of  the  En^'lifh  went  to  tlie  palace  of 
the  hishop  and  found  him  there,  and  took  him  and  led  liini 
before  the  prince,  wlio  looked  at  him  with  a  murderous  look, 
{fchnnrutirmeiit,)  and  the  best  word  that  he  could  say  to  him 
was  that  his  h^ad  should  be  cut  off,  and  then  he  made  him  be 
taken  fiom  his  presence.  —  I.  235. 

Tlie  crime  which  the  people  of  Lymoges  had  committed 
was  that  of  surrenderin;;  when  they  had  been  besieged  by  the 
duke  of  Herry,  and  in  consequence  turning  French.  And 
this  crime  was  thus  punished  at  a  period  when  no  versatility 
of  conduct  was  thi)u;,'ht  dishonorable.  The  phrases  luurner 
Mn.<;luis  —  lournrr  Vraii^Dis  —  rctotirncr  Anirlois,  occur  repeat, 
edly  in  Froissart.  I  should  add  that  of  all  the  heroes  of  this 
period  the  Black  Prince  was  the  most  generous  and  the  most 

After  the  English  had  taken  the  town  of  Monternau,  the 
seigneur  de  finitcry,  who  connnanded  there,  retired  to  the 
castle  ;  and  Henry  V.  threatened,  unless  he  surrendered,  to 
hang  eleven  gentlemen,  taken  in  the  town.  These  poor  men 
entreated  the  governor  to  coni))ly,  for  the  sake  of  saving  their 
lives,  letting  him  at  the  same  lime  know  how  impossible  it 
was  that  his  defence  could  be  of  any  avail.  lie  was  not  to  be 
persuaded  ;  and  when  they  saw  this,  and  knew  that  they  must 
die,  some  of  them  requested  that  they  might  first  see  their 
wives  and  their  friends.  This  wis  allowed  :  la  y  eut  depitenz 
re.nret.y-  auprendrn  conge,  says  Pierre  de  Fanin,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning  tliey  were  executed  as  Henry  had  threatened. 
The  governor  held  out  for  fifteen  days,  and  then  yielded  by 
a  capitulation  which  secured  himself.  —  ( CoU.  dcs  Mcmoires, 
.  V.  p.  4.'>l).) 

In  the  whole  history  of  these  dreadful  times  I  remember 
but  one  man  whom  the  cruelty  of  the  age  had  not  contami- 
nated, and  that  was  the  Portugueze  hero  Nuno  Alvarcs  Pereira, 
a  man  who  appears  to  me  to  have  been  a  perfect  example  of 
patriotism,  heroism,  and  every  noble  and  lovely  quality,  above 
all  others  of  any  age  or  country. 

Atrocious,  however,  as  these  instances  are,  they  seem  as 
nothing  when  compared  to  the  atrocities  which  the  French 
exercised  upon  each  other.  Wlien  Soissons  was  captured  by 
Oharles  VI.  (1411)  in  person,  "  in  regard  to  the  destruction 
committed  by  the  king's  army  (says  Monstrellet),  it  cannot  be 
estimated  ;  for  atli'r  tliey  had  plundered  all  the  inhabitants,  and 
their  dwellings,  they  despoiled  the  cluirchcs  and  monasteries. 
They  even  took  and  robbed  the  moit  part  of  the  sacred  shrines 
of  many  bodies  of  saints,  which  they  stripped  of  all  the  pre- 
cious stones,  gold  and  silver,  together  with  many  other  jewels 
and  holy  things  appprtaiiing  to  the  albresaid  churches.  There 
is  not  a  christian  but  would  have  shuddered  at  the  atrocious 
xcesses  committed  by  the  soldiery  in  Soissons :  married 
women  violated  before  their  husbands  ;  young  damsels  in  the 
presence  of  their  parents  and  relatives  ;  holy  nuns,  gentle- 
women of  all  ranks,  of  whom  there  were  many  in  the  town  ; 
all,  or  the  greater  part,  were  violated  against  their  wills  by 
divers  nobles  and  others,  who  after  having  satiated  their  own 
brutal  passions,  delivered  them  over  without  mercy  to  their 
servants :  and  thore  is  no  remembrance  of  such  disorder  and 
havoc  being  done  by  christians,  considering  the  many  persons 
of  hi  ;h  rank  that  were  present,  and  who  made  no  efforts  to 
check  them.  There  were  also  many  gentlemen  in  the  king's 
armv  who  had  relations  in  the  town,  as  well  secular  as  church- 
men ;  hut  the  disorder  was  not  the  less  on  that  account."  — 
Vol.  iv.  p.  dl. 

What  a  national  contrast  is  there  between  the  manner  in 
which  the  English  and  French  have  co'iducted  their  civil  wars  ! 
Even  in  the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  when  all  parlies  were  alike 
tlioroughlv  unprincipled,  crueltiL-s  were  committed  on  both 
sides  which  it  mi,'lit  have  been  thought  nothing  but  the  strong 
feeli.igs  of  a  perverted  religious  principle  could  have  given 
birth  to.  

Note  14,  p.  Id,  col.  2. —  Yet  hangs  nnd  pulls  fur  food. 

Holinshod  says,  speaking  of  the  siege  of  Roan,  "  If  I  should 
rehearse  how  deerelie  dogs,  rats,  mice,  and  cats  were  sold 
within  the  towne,  and  how  greedilie  they  were  by  the  poore 
people  eaten  and  devoured,  and  how  the  people  dailie  died 
for  fault  of  food,  and  young  infanti  late  sucking  in  Vie  strcds 

on  their  mothers^  breasts,  being  dead  starved  for  hunger,  the 
reader  might  lament  their  extreme  miseries." — p.  566, 

-Vote  1.5,  p.  17,  col.  1.  —  The  sceptre  of  the  wicked"! 

"  Do  not  the  tears  run  down  the  widow's  cheek  .'  and  is  not 
her  cry  against  him  that  causeth  them  to  fall? 

"  The  Lord  will  not  be  slack  till  he  have  smitten  in  sunder 
the  loins  of  the  unmerciful,  till  he  have  taken  away  the  multi- 
tude of  the  proud,  and  broken  the  sceptre  of  the  unrighteous." 

—  Ecclcsiasticus.  

Note  1G,  p.  17,  col.  1. —  The  Fountain  of  the  Faines. 

In  the  Journal  of  Paris  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  VI.  and 
VII.  it  is  asserted  that  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  in  answer  to  an 
interrogatory  of  the  doctors,  whether  she  had  ever  assisted  at 
the  assend)lies  held  at  the  Fountain  of  the  Fairies  near  Dom- 
prein,  round  w  liicli  the  evil  spirits  dance,  confessed  that  she  had 
often  repaired  to  a  beautiful  fountain  in  the  country  of  Iior- 
raine,  which  she  named  the  good  Fountain  of  the  Fairies  of 
our  Lord.  —  From  the  notes  to  the  English  version  of  Lc  Grand's 

Note  17,  p.  17,  col.  2.  —  They  love  to  lie  and  rock  upon  its  leaves. 

Being  asked  whether  she  had  ever  seen  any  fairies,  she 
answered  no  ;  but  that  one  of  her  god-mothers  pretended  to 
have  seen  some  at  the  Fairy-tree,  near  the  village  of  Dompre. 

—  Rapin.  

Note  18,  p.  17,  col.  2.  —  Memory,  thought,  were  gone. 

"  In  this  representation  which  I  made  to  place  myself  near 
to  Christ  (says  St.  Teresa),  there  would  come  suddenly  upon 
me,  without  cither  expectation  or  any  preparation  on  my  i>art, 
such  an  evident  feeling  of  the  presence  of  God,  as  that  1  could 
by  no  means  dcubt,  but  that  either  he  was  within  me,  or  else 
I  all  engulfed  in  him.  This  was  not  in  the  manner  of  a 
vision,  but  I  think  they  call  it  Mistical  Theology  ;  and  it 
suspends  the  sou!  in  such  sort,  that  she  seems  to  be  wholly 
out  of  herself.  The  Will  is  in  act  of  loving,  the  Memory 
seems  to  be  in  a  manner  lost,  the  understanding,  in  my  opinion, 
discourses  not ;  and  although  it  be  not  lost,  yet  it  works  not  as 
I  was  saying,  but  remains  as  it  were  amazed  to  consider  how 
much  it  understands."  —  Life  of  St.  Teresa,  written  by  herself. 

Teresa  was  well  acquainted  with  the  feelings  of  enthusiasm. 
I  had,  however,  described  the  sensations  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans 
before  I  had  met  with  the  life  of  the  saint. 

Note  19,  p.  17,  col.  2.  — ind  they  shall  perish  who  oppress. 

"  Raise  up  indignation,  and  pour  out  wrath,  and  let  them 
perish  who  oppress  the  people  !  "  —  Ecclcsiasticus,  xxxvi. 

Note  20,  p.  18,  col.  1.  —  The  hoarse  grasshoppers  their  evening 
Sung  shrill  and  ceaseless. 

The  epithets  shrill  and  hoarse  will  not  appear  mcongruous 
to  one  who  has  attended  to  the  grasshopper's  chirp.  Gazaius 
has  characterized  the  sound  by  a  word  certainly  accurate,  in 
his  tale  of  a  grasshopper  who  perched  \i\ion  St.  Francis's 
finger,  and  sung  'he  praise  of  God  and  the  wonders  of  his  own 
body  in  his  vernacuM.  tongue,  St.  Francis  and  all  the  grass- 
hoppers listening  with  equal  edification. 


Canebat  (at  sic  efferam)  cicadice. 

Pia  miaria  Angelini  OaKEi. 

Perhaps  he  remembered  two  lines  in  the  Zanitonella  of  the 
Macaronic  poet, 

Scnlis  an  quanta  cicigant  Cigala!, 
Qua:  mi/ii  rumpunt  cicigando  testam. 

The  marginal  note  says,  Cicigare,  vox  cicadas  vel  cigala;. 

St.  Francis  labored  much  in  the  conversion  of  animals 
In  the  fine  series  ofpictures  representing  his  life,  lately  painted 
for  the  new  Franciscan  convent  at  Madrid,  I  recollect  seeing 
him  preach  to  a  congregation  of  birds.  Gazaeus  has  a  poem 
upon  bis  instructing  a  ewe.  His  advice  to  her  is  somewhat 
curious : 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC, 


yide  nr,  arides,  neoe  in  vboios  ruas : 
Cave  devovcndos  Jlosciiliis  aharibus 
Vcl  ore  lacircs,  vcl  bfurcuto  pcde. 
Mule  feriatdi  felts  instur,  jrruttras 

Tlmrc  is  oiiothcr  upon  his  converting  two  lamba,  whose  prayers 
were  more  accciitiiMc  to  Goil,  Marot !  says  lie,  tlian  your 
psalms.  Il'tlie  nun,  who  took  cure  of  tliem  in  his  absence, 
was  incliueil  to  lie  a-bed  — 

Prater  ^^nvs  banc  bcS  bc£  sua 

Deviitu^'  eicitaOat. 

O  a^HCJam  7ton  aa-nc  sed  doctor  bond 

Note  21,  p.  IS,  col.  1.  —  The  memory  of  lui  prison'd  years. 

The  JIaiU  declared  upon  her  trial,  that  God  loved  the  duke 
of  Orleans,  and  that  she  had  received  more  revelations  con- 
cerning him,  than  any  person  living,  except  the  kin?. —  H'ipin. 

Orleans,  during  his  long  captivity,  "  liad  learnt  to  court  the 
fair  ladies  of  England  in  their  native  strains."  Among  the 
Harleian  JISS.  is  a  collection  of"  love  poems,  roundels  and 
songs,"  composed  by  the  French  prince  during  his  confine- 

Note  22,  p.  13,  col.  2.  —  The  prisoners  of  tltat  shameful  Jay 
out  summ'd 
Their  conquerors  ! 

According  to  Holinshcd,  the  English  army  consisted  of  only 
15,000  men,  harassed  with  a  tedious  march  of  a  month,  in 
very  bad  weather,  through  an  enemy's  country,  and  for  the 
most  part  sick  of  a  flux.  He  states  the  number  of  French  at 
00,000,  of  whom  10,000  were  slain,  and  1500  of  the  higher 
order  taken  prisoners.  Some  historians  make  the  dispropor_ 
tion  in  numbers  still  greater.  Goodwin  says,  that  among  the 
slain  there  were  one  archbisliop,  three  dukes,  six  earls,  ninety 
barons,  fifteen  hundred  knights,  and  seven  thousand  esquires 
or  gentlemen.  

Note  23,   p.   18,   col.   2.  —  Frcm  his  herscd  bowmen  how  the 

This  was  the  usual  method  of  marshalling  the  bowmen.  At 
Cressy  "  tho  archers  stood  in  manner  of  an  herse,  about  two 
hundred  in  front  and  but  forty  in  depth,  which  is  undoubtedly 
the  best  way  of  embattling  archers,  especially  when  the  enemy 
is  very  numerous,  as  at  this  time  :  for  by  the  breadth  of  the 
front  the  extension  of  the  enemies  front  is  matched  ;  and  by 
rea^ion  of  the  thinness  in  flank,  the  arrows  do  more  certain 
execution,  being  more  likely  to  reach  home."  —  Barnes. 

The  victory  at  Poictiers  is  chiefly  attributed  to  the  herse  of 
archers.  After  mentioning  the  conduct  and  courage  of  the 
English  leaders  in  tliat  battle,  Uarnes  says,  "  But  all  this 
courage  had  been  thrown  away  to  no  purpose,  had  it  not  been 
Beconded  by  the  extraordinary  gallantry  of  the  English  archers, 
who  behaved  themselves  that  day  with  wonderful  constancy, 
alacrity,  and  resolution.  So  that  by  their  means,  in  a  manner, 
all  the  French  battails  received  their  first  foil,  being  by  the 
barbed  arrows  so  galled  and  terrified,  that  they  were  easily 
opened  to  the  men  of  arms." 

"  Without  all  question,  the  guns  which  are  used  now-a-<lays 
are  neither  so  terrible  in  battle,  nor  do  such  execution,  nor 
work  such  confusion  as  arrows  can  do  :  for  bullets  being  not 
seen  only  hurt  when  they  hit,  but  arrows  enrage  the  horse, 
and  break  the  array,  and  terrify  all  that  behold  them  in  the 
bodies  of  their  neighbors.  Not  to  say  that  every  archer  can 
shoot  thrice  to  a  gunner's  once,  and  that  whole  squadrons  of 
bows  may  let  fly  at  one  time,  when  only  one  or  two  files  of 
musqnetcers  can  discharge  a*,  once.  Also,  that  whereas 
guns  are  useless  when  your  pikes  join,  because  they  only  do 
ircecution  point  blank,  the  arrows  which  will  kill  at  random, 
may  do  good  service  even  behind  your  men  of  arms.  And  it 
is  notorious,  that  at  the  famous  battle  of  Lepanto,  the  Turkish 
bows  did  more  mischief  than  the  Christian  artillery.  Besides 
It  is  not  the  least  observable,  that  whereas  the  weakest  may 
use  s:uns  as  well  as  the  strongest,  in  those  days  your  lusty  and 
tall  yeomen  were  chosen  for  the  bow;  whose  hose  being  fas- 
tened with  one  point,  and  their  jackets  long  and  easy  to  shoot 
in,  they  had  their  limbs  at  full  liberty,  so  that  tlioy  might 
easily  draw  bows  of  great  strength,  and  shoot  arrows  of  a 
yard  long  beside  the  head."  —  Joshua  Barnes. 

Note  24,  p.  18,  col.  2.  —  To  turn  en  the  defenceless  pruioncrs 
The  cruel  sword  of  conr/uest 

During  the  heat  of  the  combat,  when  the  English  had 
gained  the  u|>per  hand,  and  made  several  prisoners,  news  was 
brought  to  king  Henry  that  the  French  were  attacking  his 
rear,  and  had  already  captured  the  greater  part  of  his  bagg;ige 
and  sumpter-horses.  This  was  indeed  true,  for  Robinet  de 
Bournonville,  Rifllart  de  Clamasse,  Ysambart  d'Azincourt, 
and  some  other  men  at  arms,  with  about  six  hundred  pcusanl-i, 
had  fallen  upon  and  taken  great  part  of  the  king's  baggage, 
and  a  number  of  horses,  while  the  guard  was  occupied  in  the 
battle.  This  distressed  the  king  very  much,  for  he  saw  that 
though  the  French  army  had  been  routed,  they  were  collecting 
on  dilierent  parts  of  the  plain  in  large  bodies,  and  he  was 
afraid  they  would  resume  the  battle :  he  therefore  caused 
instant  proclamation  to  be  made  by  sound  of  trumpet,  that 
every  one  should  put  his  prisoners  to  death,  to  prevent  them 
from  aiding  the  enemy,  should  the  combat  be  renewed.  This 
caused  an  instantaneous  and  general  massacre  of  the  French 
prisoners,  occasioned  by  the  disgraceful  conduct  of  Robinet  de 
Bournonville,  Ysambart  d'Azincourt,  and  the  others,  who 
were  afterwards  jiunished  for  il,  and  imprisoned  a  very  long 
time  by  duke  John  of  Burgundy,  notwithstanding  they  had 
made  a  present  to  the  count  de  Charolois  of  a  most  precious 
sword  ornamented  with  diamonds,  that  had  belong-jd  to  the 
king  of  England.  They  had  taken  this  sword,  with  other 
rich  jewels,  from  king  Henry's  baggage,  und  had  made  this 
present,  that  in  case  they  should  at  any  time  be  called  to  an 
account  for  what  they  had  done,  the  count  might  stand  their 
friend.  —  Monjstrelet,  vol.  iv.  p.  180. 

When  the  king  of  England  had  on  this  Saturday  begun  his 
march  towards  Calais,  many  of  the  French  returned  to  the 
field  of  battle,  the  bodies  had  been  turned  over  more 
than  once,  some  to  seek  for  their  lords,  and  carry  them  to  their 
own  countries  for  burial,  others  to  pillage  what  the  English 
had  left.  King  Henry's  army  had  only  taken  gold,  silver, 
rich  dresses,  helmets,  and  what  was  of  value,  for  which  reason 
the  greater  part  of  the  armor  was  untouched,  and  on  the  dead 
bodies  ;  but  it  did  not  long  remain  thus,  for  it  was  very  soon 
stripped  olf,  and  even  the  shirts  and  all  other  parts  of  their 
dress  were  carried  away  by  the  peasants  of  the  adjoining 

The  bodies  w'ere  left  exposed  as  naked  as  when  they  came 
into  the  world.  On  the  Saturday,  Sunday,  INIonday,  Tuesday, 
and  Wednesday,  the  corpses  of  many  princes  v/ere  well 
washed  and  raised,  namely,  the  dukes  of  Brabant,  Bar,  and 
AleiKjon,  the  counts  de  Nevers,  de  Blaumont,  de  Vaudeniont) 
de  Faulquemberge,  the  lord  de  Dampicrre,  admiral  sir  Charles 
d'Albreth,  constable,  and  buried  in  the  church  of  the  Friars 
Minors  at  Hesdin.  Others  were  carried  by  their  servants, 
some  to  their  own  countries,  and  others  to  difterent  churches. 
All  who  were  recognized  werq  taken  away,  and  !3uiied  in  the 
churches  of  their  manors. 

When  Philippe  count  de  Charolois  heard  of  the  unfor- 
tunate and  melancholy  disaster  of  tlie  French,  ho  was  ir.  great 
grief;  more  especially  for  the  death  of  his  two  uncles,  the 
duke  of  Brabant  and  count  de  Nevers.  Moved  by  compas- 
sion, hi^  caused  all  that  had  remained  exposed  on  the  field  of 
battle  to  be  interred,  and  commissioned  the  abbot  de  Kous- 
sianville  and  the  bailiff  of  Aire  to  have  it  done.  They  meas. 
urcd  out  a  square  of  twenty-five  yards,  wdiercin  were  dug 
three  trenches  twelve  feet  wide,  in  which  were  buried,  by  an 
account  kept,  five  thousand  eight  hundred  men.  It  was  not 
known  how  many  had  been  carried  away  by  their  friends,  nor 
what  number  of  the  wounded  had  died  in  hospitals,  towns, 
villages,  and  even  in  the  adjacent  woods  ;  but,  as  I  have 
before  said,  it  must  have  been  very  great. 

This  square  w'as  consecrated  as  a  buryiug-ground  by  the 
bishop  of  Guines,  at  the  command  and  as  procurator  of  Louis 
de  Luxembourg,  bishop  of  Therounne.  It  was  surrounded 
by  a  strong  hedge  of  thorns,  to  prevent  wolves  or  dogs  from 
entering  it,  and  tearing  up  and  devouring  the  bodies. 

In  consequence  of  this  sad  event,  some  learned  clerk  of  the 
realm  made  the  following  verses : 

A  chief  by  dolorous  iruschance  opprcss'd, 
.\  prince  who  rules  by  arbitrary  will, 

A  royal  house  by  discord  sore  distress'd, 
A  council  prejudiced  and  partial  still, 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

Subjects  by  prodigality  brought  low, 

Will  fill  the  land  with  beggars,  well  we  trow. 

Nobles  made  noble  in  dame  Nature's  spite 
A  timorous  clergy  fear,  and  truth  conceal ; 

While  huii]blu  commoners  forego  their  right, 
And  the  harsh  yoke  of  proud  oppression  feel : 

Thus,  while  the  people  mourn,  the  public  woe 

Will  fill  the  land  with  beggars,  well  we  trow. 

Ah  feeble  woe  !  whose  impotent  commands 
The  very  vassals  boldly  dare  despise  : 

Ah  helpless  monarch  !  whose  enervate  hands 
And  wavering  counsels  dare  no  high  emprize, 

Thy  hapless  reign  will  cause  our  tears  to  flow, 

And  fill  the  land  with  beggars,  well  we  trow. 

Johnes's  Monstelet,  vol.  iv.  p.  195. 

According  to  Pierre  de  Fcnin,  the  English  did  not  bury 
their  own  dead  ;  but  their  loss  was  so  small  that  this  is  very 
unlikely.  He  says,  ^pres  cette  doidourcuse  joumce^  ct  que 
touies  les  deux  parties  sefurcnt  retirees,  Louxjs  de  Luxembourg, 
qui  cstoit  Eoesque  de  Teruuane,  fit  faire  en  la  place  uu  la  bataillc 
avoit  estc  domi^c  plusiuers  charniers,  ou  ilfit  assembler  tons  les 
marts  d'un  caste  et  d'autre  ;  et  Id  les  fit  entcrrer,  puis  U  henit  la 
place,  el  la  fit  enclore  de  fortes  kayes  tout  autour,  pour  la 
garantir  du  bestial. 

After  the  battle  of  Agincourt  Henry  lodged  at  Maisoncclle  ; 
le  lendcmain  au  matin  il  en  deslogeu,  el  alia  passer  tout  au  milieu 
des  marts  qui  avoient  estc  tucz  en  cc  combat;  Idil s'arresta  grand 
espace  dc  temps,  et  tirirent  ses  gens  encor  des  prisonniers  hors 
du  nombre  des  marts,  qu'ils  evimenercnt  arec  eux.  —  Coll.  des 
Memoires.  t.  v.  p.  384. 

Note  25,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Fromthe  disastrous  plain  of  Agincourt. 

Perhaps  one  consequence  of  the  victory  at  Agincourt  is  not 
generally  known  Immediately  on  his  return  Henry  sent  his 
legates  to  the  council  of  Constance  :  "  at  this  councell,  by  the 
assent  of  all  nations  there  present,  it  was  authorised  and 
ordained,  that  England  should  obtaine  the  name  of  a  nation, 
and  should  be  said  one  of  the  five  nations  that  owe  their  de- 
votion to  the  church  of  Rome,  which  thing  untill  that  time 
men  of  other  nations,  for  envy,  had  delayed  and  letted."  — 
Stowe,  Klmham.  

Note  26,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Henry,  as  wise  as  brave,  had  back  to 

Henry  judged,  that  by  fomenting  the  troubles  of  France,  he 
nhould  procure  more  certain  and  lasting  advantages  than  by 
means  of  his  arms.  The  truth  is,  by  pushing  the  French 
vigorously,  he  ran  the  risk  of  uniting  them  all  against  him ; 
ill  which  case,  his  advantages,  probably,  would  have  been  in- 
considerable ;  but  by  granting  them  some  respite,  he  gave 
them  opportunity  to  destroy  one  another :  therefore,  contrary 
to  every  one's  expectation,  he  laid  aside  his  military  aflfairs 
for  near  eighteen  months,  and  betook  himself  entirely  to  ne- 
gotiation, which  aflTorded  him  the  prospect  of  less  doubtful 
advantages.  —  Rapin. 

Note  27,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  For  many  were  the  warrior  so?is  of 

"  Yet  although  the  armie  was  strong  without,  there  lacked 
not  within  both  hardie  capteins  and  manfuU  soldiers,  and  as 
for  people,  they  had  more  than  inough  :  for  as  it  is  written  by 
some  that  had  good  cause  to  know  the  truth,  and  no  occasion 
to  erre  from  the  same,  there  were  in  the  citie  at  the  time  of 
the  siege  210,000  persons.  Dailie  were  issues  made  out  of 
the  citie  at  diverse  gates,  sometime  to  the  losse  of  the  one 
partie  and  sometimes  of  the  other,  as  chances  of  warre  in  such 
adventures  happen."  —  Holinshed,  5G6. 

Note  28,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Haxl  made  them,  vow  before  Almighty 
"  The  Frenchmen  indeed  preferring  fame  before  worldlie 
riches  and  despisingpleasure  (the  enemy  to  warlike  prowesse), 
Bware  ech  to  other  never  to  render  or  deliver  the  citie,  while 
they  might  either  hold  sword  in  hand  or  speare  in  rest." 
—  Holinshed,  566. 

Note  29,  p.  19,  col.  1.  —  Had  made  a  league  with  Famine. 

"  The  king  of  England  advertised  of  their  hautie  courages, 
determined  to  conquer  them  by  famine  which  would  not  he 
tamed  by  weapon.  Wherefore  he  slopped  all  the  passages, 
both  by  water  and  land,  that  no  vittels  could  be  conveied  to 
the  citie.  He  cast  trenches  round  about  the  walls,  and  set 
them  full  of  slakes,  and  defended  them  with  archers,  so  that 
there  was  left  neither  waie  for  them  within  to  issue  out,  noi 
for  anie  that  were  abroad  to  enter  in  without  his  license.  — 
The  king's  coosine  germane  and  alie  (the  king  of  Por(ugale) 
sent  a  great  navie  of  well-nppointed  ships  unto  the  mouth  .if 
the  river  Peine,  to  stop  that  no  French  vessel  should  enler 
the  river  and  passe  up  the  same,  to  the  aid  of  them  will. in 

"Thus  was  the  faire  citie  of  Rouen  compassed  about  wi  b 
enemies,  both  by  water  and  land,  having  neither  comfort  nui 
aid  of  king,  dolphin,  or  duke."  —  Holinshed,  SOti. 

King  Henry  of  England  marched  a  most  powerful  army, 
accompanied  by  a  large  trainof  artillery  and  warlike  stores,  m 
the  month  of  June,  before  the  noble  and  potent  town  of  Rouen, 
to  prevent  the  inhibitants  and  garrison  from  being  supplied 
with  new  corn.  The  van  of  his  army  arrived  there  at  mid- 
night, that  the  garrison  might  not  make  any  sally  against 
them.  The  king  was  lodged  at  the  Carthusian  convent  ;  the 
duke  of  Gloucester  was  quartered  before  the  gate  of  St. 
Hilaire  ;  the  duke  of  Clarence  at  the  gate  of  Caen  ;  the  earl  of 
Warwick  at  that  of  Martinville  ;  the  duke  of  Exeter  and  earl 
of  Dorset  at  that  of  Beauvais  :  in  front  of  the  gate  of  the 
castle  were  the  lord  marshal  and  sir  John  de  Cornwall.  At 
the  gate  leading  to  Normandy  were  posted  the  earls  of  Hunt- 
ingdon, Salisbury,  Kyme,  and  the  lord  Neville,  son  to  the  eail 
of  Westmoreland.  On  the  hill  fronting  St.  Catherine's  were 
others  of  the  English  barons.  Before  the  English  could  forlifv 
their  quarters,  in.iny  sallies  were  made  on  them,  and  several 
severe  skirmishes  passed  on  both  sides.  But  the  English,  so 
soon  as  they  could,  dug  deep  ditches  between  the  town  and 
ihem,  on  the  top  of  which  tliey  planted  a  thick  hedge  of 
thorns,  so  that  they  could  not  otherwise  be  annoyed  than  by 
cannon  .shot  and  arrows.  They  also  built  a  jette  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine,  about  a  cannon  shot  distant  from  the  town,  to 
which  they  fastened  their  chains,  one  of  tlicm  half  a  foot  under 
the  water,  another  level  with  it,  and  a  third  two  fi'et  above  the 
stream,  so  that  no  boats  could  bring  provision  to  the  town,  nor 
could  any  esc.ipe  from  it  that  way.  They  likewise  dug  deep 
i:alleries  of  communication  fiom  one  quarter  to  another,  which 
completely  sheltered  those  in  them  from  cannon  or  other  war- 
like machines.  —  Monstrelct,  vol.  v.  p.  40. 

Note  30,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Desperate  endurance. 

"  Afler  he  had  prosecuted  the  siege  of  this  place  (or  some 
time,  the  cardinal  Ursino  repaired  to  his  camp,  and  endeavored 
to  persuade  him  to  moderate  his  terms,  and  agree  to  an  equi- 
table peace  ;  but  the  king's  reply  |)lainly  evinced  his  deter- 
mination of  availing  himself  of  the  present  situation  of  public 
affairs  ;  '  Do  you  not  see,'  said  he,  '  that  God  has  brought  me 
hither,  as  it  were  by  the  hand.'  The  throne  of  France  may 
be  said  to  be  vacant  ;  I  have  a  good  title  to  that  crown  ;  the 
whole  kingdom  is  involved  in  the  utmost  disorder  and  confu- 
sion ;  few  are  willing,  and  still  fewer  are  able,  to  resist  me. 
Can  I  have  a  more  convincing  proof  of  the  interposition  of 
heaven  in  my  favor,  and  that  the  .^'uprenie  Ruh't  of  all  things 
has  decreed  that  I  should  ascend  the  throne  of  France.'"  — 
Hist,  of  England,  by  Hugh  Clarendon. 

Note  31,  p.  19,  col.  2. —  Could  we  behold  their  savage  Irish 

"  With  the  English  sixteen  hundred  Irish  Kernes  were 
enrolled  from  the  prior  of  Kilmainham  ;  able  men,  but  almost 
naked  ;  tlieir  arms  were  targets,  darts,  and  swords  ;  their  horses 
little,  and  bare  no  saddle,  yet  nevertheless  nimble,  on  which 
upon  every  advantage  they  plaied  with  the  French,  in  spoiling 
the  country,  rifeling  the  houses,  and  carrying  away  children 
with  their  baggage  upon  their  cowes  backs." —  Speed,  p.  638. 

The  king  of  England  had  in  his  army  numbers  of  Irish,  the 
greater  part  of  whom  were  on  foot,  having  only  a  stocking  and 
shoe  on  one  leg  and  foot,  with  the  other  quite  naked.  They 
had  targets,  short  javelins,  and  a  strange  sort  of  knives.    Those 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


who  were  on  horseback  had  no  saddl^fi,  but  rode  excellently 
well  on  small  nionntuin  horses,  and  were  mounted  on  such 
panniers  ns  are  used  by  the  carriers  of  corn  in  pans  ol  France, 
riicy  were,  however,  miserably  accoutred  in  comparison  willi 
the  English,  and  without  any  arms  that  could  much  hurt  the 
French  whenever  they  nii^'ht  meet  them. 

Tliesi;  Irish  made  frequent  excursions  during  the  siege  over 
Normandy,  and  did  inlinito  mischiefs,  carrying  back  to  their 
camp  large  booties.  I'hose  on  foot  look  men,  and  even 
cliildren  from  the  cradle,  with  beds  and  furnilure,  and  placing; 
Iheju  on  cows,  drove  all  these  things  before  them,  for  they 
v.-ere  often  met  thus  by  the  French.  —  Monstreiet,  v.  p.  42. 

Note  32,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Ruffians  lialf-dolhed,  half-human,  half 

"  In  some  corners  of  Connaught,  the  people  leave  the  right 
armes  of  their  infants  male  unchristencd  (as  they  teimo  it),  to 
the  end  that  at  any  time  afterwards  they  might  give  a  more 
deadly  and  ungracious  blow  when  they  strike  ;  which  things 
doe  not  only  show  how  palpably  Ihey  are  cariied  away  by  tra- 
ditious  obscurities,  but  doe  also  intimate  how  lull  their  hearts 
be  of  inveterate  revenge." 

The  book  from  which  this  extract  is  taken  wants  the  title. 
The  title  of  the  second  part  is,  ^  Prospect  of  the  mostfamou.^ 
Paris  of  the  Worll.  Printed  for  Wdliam  Humble,  in  Pope's 
Head  Place.  1646.  

Note  33,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Of  Ifnrjleur^s  wretched  people  driven 

"  Some  writing  of  this  yeelding  up  of  Harfleur,  doo  in  like 
sort  make  mention  of  the  distresse  whereto  the  people,  then 
expelled  out  of  their  habitations,  were  driven  ;  insomuch  as 
parents  with  their  children,  yong  maids,  and  old  folke  went 
out  of  the  towne  gates  with  heavie  harts  (God  wot),  as  put  to 
their  present  shifts  to  seek  them  a  new  abode."  —  Holinshed, 

This  act  of  barb  irity  was  perpetrated  by  Henry,  that  he 
might  people  the  town  with  English  inhabitants.  "This 
doth  Anglorum  pra'lia  report,  saieng(not  without  good  ground 
1  believe),  as  followeth  : 

Turn  flentes  tenera  cum  prole  parentes 
Virgineusque  chorus  veteres  liquiire  penates  : 
Turn  populus  cunctus  de  portis  Gallicus  exit 
M<BStus,  inarmatus,  vacuus,  miser,  a>ger,  inopsqne, 
Utque  novas  sedes  quadrat  migrare  coactus : 
Oppidulo  belli  potiuntur  jure  Britanni  !  "  —  Holinshed. 

There  is  a  way  of  telling  trutn  so  as  to  convey  falsehood. 
After  the  capture  of  Harfleur,  .Stowe  says,  "  All  the  soldiers 
and  inhabitants,  both  of  the  towne  and  towers,  were  suffered  to 
^oc  freely,  unharmed,  whither  tliey  would."  —  318.  Henry's 
conduct  was  the  same  at  Caen  :  he  "  commanded  all  women 
and  children  to  bee  avoyded  out  of  the  towne,  and  so  the 
towne  was  inhabited  of  new  possessors." —  Stowc. 

which  they  found  closed  and  shut  against  them,  and  so  they 
laie  betwoenc  the  wals  of  the  cilic  and  the  trenches  of  the 
enemies,  still  crieing  for  help  and  releefo,  for  lack  whereof 
great  numbers  of  them  dailie  died."  —  Holinshed. 

Note  34,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  Knelt  at  the  altar. 

Before  Henry  took  possession  of  Harfleur,  he  went  bare- 
footed to  the  church  to  give  God  thanks. —  De  Sn-res. 

Note  35,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  In  cold  blood  slaughtered. 

Henry,  not  satisfied  with  the  reduction  of  Caen,  put  several 
of  the  inhabitants  to  death,  who  had  signaliied  their  valor  in 
the  defence  of  their  liberty.  —  H.  Clarendon. 

Note  3fi,  p.  19,  col.  2.  —  He  groan'd  and  curs'din  bitterness  of 
After  the  capture  of  the  city  "  Luca  Italico,  the  vicar 
generall  of  the  archbishoprike  of  Rouen,  for  denouncing  the 
king  accursed,  was  delivered  to  him  and  deteincd  in  prison  till 
he  died."  —  Holinshed.   Titus  Livius, 

Note  37,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  Drive  back  tjte  miserable  multitude. 

"  A  great  number  of  poore  sillie  creatures  were  put  out  of 

the   gates,   which    were   by   the   Englishmen    that   kept   the 

trenches  beaten  and  driven  back  again   to  the  same  gates, 


Note  38,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  jSnrf  irAra  wc  sntt  the  herald  to  intpUnre 
His  mercy. 

.\t  this  period,  a  priest  of  a  tolerable  age,  and  of  clear  un- 
derstanding, was  deputed,  by  those  besieged  in  Rouen,  to  the 
king  of  France  and  his  council.  On  his  arrival  at  Paris,  he 
caused  to  be  explained,  by  an  Augustin  doctor, named  F.ustace 
de  la  I'aville,  in  presence  of  the  king  and  his  ministers,  the 
miserable  situation  of  the  besieged.  He  took  for  his  text, 
^' Diimine,  quid facirmus'!  "  and  harangueil  upon  it  very  ably 
and  eloquently.  When  he  had  finished,  the  priest  addressed 
the  king,  saying,  "  Most  excellent  prince  and  lord,  I  am  en- 
joined by  the  inhabitants  of  Rouen  to  make  loud  complaints 
against  you,  and  against  you  duko  of  Burgundy,  who  govern 
the  king,  for  the  oppressions  they  suffer  from  the  English. 
They  make  known  to  you  by  me,  that  if,  from  want  of  being 
succored  by  you,  they  are  forced  to  become  subjects  to  the 
king  of  England,  you  will  not  have  in  all  the  world  more  bitter 
enemies  ;  and  if  they  can,  they  will  destroy  you  and  your 
whole  congregation."  With  these  or  with  similar  words  did 
this  priest  address  the  king  and  his  council.  After  he  had 
been  well  received  and  entertained,  and  the  duke  of  Burgundy 
had  promised  to  provide  succors  for  the  town  of  Rouen  as 
speedily  as  possible,  he  returned  the  best  way  he  could  to  carry 
this  news  to  the  besieged.^ Monstrekt,  vol.  v.  p.  54. 

One  of  the  deputed  citizens,  "showing  himself  more  rash 
than  wise,  more  arrogant  than  learned,  took  upon  him  to  show 
wherein  the  glorie  of  victorie  consisted;  advising  the  king  not 
to  show  his  manhood  in  famishing  a  multitude  of  poore  simple 
and  innocent  people,  but  rather  suffer  such  miserable  wretches 
as  laie  betwixt  the  walls  of  the  citie  and  the  trenches  of  his 
siege,  to  passe  through  the  camp,  that  theie  might  get  their 
living  in  other  places  ;  then  if  he  durst  manfullie  assault  the 
place,  and  by  force  subdue  it,  he  should  win  both  worldlie 
fame,  and  merit  great  meed  from  the  hands  of  Almighlie  (7od, 
for  having  compassion  of  the  poore,  needio,  and  indigent 
people.  When  this  orator  had  said,  the  king  with  a  fierce 
countenance  and  bold  spirit,  reproved  them  lor  their  malapert 
presumi)tion,  in  that  they  should  seeme  to  go  aliout  to  teach 
him  what  belonged  to  tlie  dutie  of  a  conqueror,  and  therefore 
since  it  appeared  that  the  same  was  unknown  to  them,  he 
declared  that  the  goddesse  of  bittell  called  Bellona  had  three 
handmaidens,  ever  of  necessitie  attending  upon  her,  as  Blood, 
Fire,  and  Famine,  and  whereas  it  laie  in  his  choice  to  use 
them  all  three,  he  had  appointed  onelie  the  meekest  maid  of 
those  three  damsels  to  punish  them  of  that  citie  till  they  were 
brought  to  reason.  This  answer  put  the  French  ambassador 
in  a  great  studie,  musing  much  at  his  cxedlcKt  irit  and  hawti- 
nesse  of  courage."  —  Holinshed. 

While  the  court  resided  at  Beauvais,  four  gentlemen  and 
four  citizens  of  Rouen  were  sent  to  liy  before  the  king  and 
council  their  miserable  state  :  they  told  them  that  thousands 
of  persons  were  already  dead  with  hunger,  within  their  town  ; 
and  that  from  the  beginning  of  October,  they  had  been  forced 
to  live  on  horses,  dogs,  cats,  mice,  and  rats,  and  other  things 
unfit  for  human  creatures.  They  had  nevertheless  driven  full 
twelve  thousand  poor  people,  men,  women,  and  children,  out 
of  the  place,  the  greater  part  of  whom  hud  perished  wretch- 
edly in  the  ditches  of  the  town.  That  it  hid  been  frequently 
necessary  to  draw  up  in  baskets  now-born  children  from 
mothers  who  had  been  brought  to  bed  in  these  ditches,  to 
have  them  baptized,  and  they  were  afterwards  returned  to 
their  mothers  ;  many,  however,  had  perished  without  christen- 
ing—  all  which  things  were  grievous  and  pitiful  to  be  related. 
They  then  adiled,  "To  you  our  lord  and  king,  and  to  you 
noble  duke  of  Burgundy,  the  loyal  inhabitants  of  Rouen  have 
before  made  known  their  distress  :  they  now  again  inform  you 
how  much  they  are  suffering  for  you,  to  which  you  have  not 
yet  provided  any  remedy  according  to  your  promises.  We 
are  sent  to  you  for  the  last  time,  to  announce  to  you,  on  the 
part  of  the  besieged,  that  if  within  a  few  days  they  are  not 
relieved,  Ihey  shall  surrender  themselves  and  their  town  to 
the  English  king,  and  thenceforward  renounce  all  allegiance, 
faith,  and  service,  which  they  have  sworn  to  you."   The  king. 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

duke,  and  council,  courteously  replied,  that  the  king's  forcea 
were  not  as  yet  adeiiuiite  to  raise  the  siege,  which  tliey  were 
exceediiigly  sorry  for ;  hut,  with  Goil's  pleasure,  they  should 
very  soon  bo  relieved.  The  deputic;s  asked  by  what  time  ; 
the  duke  answered,  before  the  fourth  day  after  Christmas. 
They  then  returned  to  their  town  with  difficulty,  from  the 
great  danger  of  being  taken  by  the  besiegers,  and  related  all 
that  had  passed. 

The  besieged  now  suffered  the  greatest  distress  ;  and  it  is 
impossible  to  recount  the  miseries  of  the  common  people  from 
famine  :  it  was  afterward  known  that  upwards  of  fifty  thou- 
sand had  petislie<l  of  iiunger.  Some,  when  they  snw  meat 
carried  through  the  street,  in  despair,  ran  to  seize  it,  and  so 
doing,  allowed  themselves  to  be  severely  beaten,  and  even 
wounded.  During  the  space  of  three  months  no  provisions 
wore  seen  in  the  markets,  but  every  thing  wa.s  sold  secretly  ; 
and  what  before  the  siege  was  worth  a  farthing,  was  sold  for 
twenty,  thirty,  or  even  forty  ;  but  those  prices  were  too  high 
for  the  common  people,  and  hence  the  great  mortality  1  have 
mentioned.  —  Mo:istnlct,  vol.  v.  p.  Gl. 

Note  .W,  p.  '20,  col.  1.  —  ji  cry  of  fremy'mg  anguish. 

The  names  of  our  Edwards  and  Henries  are  usually  cited 
together,  but  it  is  disgracing  the  Black  Prince  and  his  father 
to  mention  them  with  Henry  of  Monmouth.  He  was  a  hard- 
hearted man.  We  have  seen  what  was  his  conduct  to  the 
famished  fugitives  from  Ro;in.  The  same  circumstance  oc- 
curred at  the  siege  of  Calais,  and  the  dilference  between  the 
monarclis  cannot  be  better  e.vemplided  than  in  the  difference 
of  their  conduct  upon  the  same  occasion.  "  When  sir  John 
de  Vienne  perceived  that  king  Edward  intended  to  lie  long 
there,  he  thought  to  rid  the  town  of  as  many  useless  mouths 
as  he  could  ;  and  so  on  a  Wednesday,  being  the  IJth  of  Sep- 
tember, he  forced  out  of  the  town  more  than  seventeen  hun- 
dred of  the  poorest  and  least  necessary  people,  old  men, 
women,  and  children,  and  shut  the  gates  upon  them  :  who 
bcmg  demanded,  wherefore  they  came  out  of  the  town,  an- 
swered with  great  lamentation,  that  it  was  because  they  had 
nothing  to  live  on.  Then  king  Edward,  who  was  so  fierce  in 
battle,  showed  a  truly  royal  disposition  by  considering  the  sad 
condition  of  these  forlorn  wretches  ;  for  he  not  only  would 
not  force  them  back  again  into  the  town,  whereby  they  might 
help  to  consume  the  victuals,  but  he  gave  them  all  a  dinner 
and  two  pence  a-piece,  and  leave  to  piss  through  the  army 
without  the  least  molestation  :  whereby  he  so  wrought  upon 
the  hearts  of  these  poor  creatures,  that  many  of  them  prayed 
to  God  for  his  prosperity."  —  Joshua  Barnes. 

Note  40,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  JVor  when  Ike  traitor  yielded  up  our 

Roan  was  betrayed  by  its  Butgundian  governor  Bouthellier. 
During  the  siege  fitly  thousand  men  perished  through  fatigue, 
want,  and  the  use  of  unwholesome  provisions. 

Note  41,  p.  20,  col.  1.  —  The  gallant  Blanchard  died. 

Roy  d'.^ngleterre  Jist  coupper  la  teste   a  Mllain  Blancliart 
cappitaine  da  commun.  —  Monstrelet,  ff.  cxcvii. 

Note  42,  p.  20,  col.  I.  —  There  where  the  wicked  cease. 

There  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  ;  and  the  weary  be 
at  rest.  —  Job,  iii.  17. 

Note  43,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  jj  pompous  shade. 

Cent  drapraiix  funebres 
Etaloient  en  pleinjour  de  pinnpcuses  tenebres. 

Le  JHoyne.     St.  Louis.  Liv.  xvi. 

Note  44,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  In  the  mid-day  sun  a  dim  and  gloomy 

"  When  all  things  necessary  were  prepared  for  the  convey- 
ance of  the  dead  king  into  England,  bis  body  was  laid  in  a 
chariot,  which  was  drawn  by  four  great  horses  :  and  above 
the  dead  corpse,  they  laid  a  figure  made  of  boiled  hides,  or 
leather,  representing  his  person,  as  near  to  the  semblance  of 

him  as  could  be  devised,  painted  curiously  to  the  similitude 
of  a  living  creature  ;  upon  whose  head  was  set  an  imperial 
diadome  of  gold  and  precious  stones,  on  his  body  a  purple 
robe  furred  with  ermine,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a  scep- 
tre royal,  and  in  his  left  hand  a  ball  of  gold,  with  a  cross 
fixed  thereon.  And  in  this  manner  adorned,  was  this  figure 
laid  in  a  bed  in  the  said  chariot,  with  his  visage  uncovered 
towards  the  heaven:  and  the  coverture  of  his  bed  was  red 
silke  beaten  with  gold;  and  besides  that,  when  the  body 
should  passe  through  any  good  towne,  a  canopy  of  marvellous 
great  value  was  borne  over  the  chariot  by  men  of  great  wor- 
ship. In  this  manner,  accompanied  of  the  king  of  Scots  and 
of  all  princes,  lords,  and  knights  of  his  house,  he  was  brought 
from  Koane  to  Abville,  where  the  corpse  was  set  in  the  church 
of  Saint  Ulfrane.  From  Ahville  he  was  brought  to  Hedin, 
and  from  thence  to  .Aionstiuoil,  so  to  Bulloigne,  and  so  to 
Calice.  In  all  this  journey  were  many  men  about  the  chariot 
clothed  all  in  white,  which  bare  in  their  hands  torches  burning: 
after  whome  followed  all  the  household  servants  in  blackc, 
and  after  them  came  the  princes,  lords,  and  estates  of  the 
king's  blood,  adorned  in  vesluies  of  mourning;  and  afler  all 
this,  from  the  said  corpse  the  distance  of  two  English  mylis, 
followed  thequeeneof  England  right  honorably  accompanyed 
In  this  manner  they  entered  Calice." —  Stome. 

At  about  a  league  distant  followed  the  queen,  with  a  numer- 
ous attendance.  From  Calais  they  embaiked  for  Dover,  and 
passing  through  Canterbury  and  Rochester,  arrived  at  London 
on  Martinmas-day. 

When  the  funeral  approached  London,  fifteen  bishops 
dressed  in  jmutificnlibus,  several  mitred  abbots  and  church- 
men, with  a  multitude  of  persons  of  all  ranks,  came  out  to 
meet  it.  The  churchmen  chanted  the  service  for  the  dead 
as  it  passed  over  London-bridge,  through  Lombard-street,  to 
St.  I'aul's  cathedral.  Near  the  car  were  the  relations  of  the 
late  king,  uttering  loud  lamentations.  On  the  collar  of  the 
first  horse  that  drew  the  car  were  emblazoned  the  ancient 
arms  of  England  ;  on  that  of  the  second,  the  arms  of  Franco 
and  England  quartered  the  .same  as  he  bore  during  his  life- 
time ;  on  that  of  the  third,  the  arms  of  France  simply ;  on 
that  of  the  fourth  horse  were  painted  the  arms  of  the  noble 
king  Arthur,  whom  no  one  could  conquer:  they  were  three 
crowns  or,  on  a  shield  azure. 

When  the  funeral  service  had  been  royally  performed  in  the 
cathedral,  the  body  was  carried  to  be  interred  at  Westminster 
abbey  with  his  ancestors.  At  this  funeral,  and  in  regard  to 
every  thing  concerning  it,  greater  pomp  and  expense  were 
made  than  had  been  done  for  two  hundred  years  at  the  inter- 
ment of  any  king  of  England  ;  and  even  now  as  much  honor 
and  reverence  is  daily  paid  to  his  tomb,  as  if  it  were  certain 
he  was  a  saint  in  Paradise. 

Thus  ended  the  life  of  king  Henry  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
for  when  he  died  he  was  but  forty  years  old.  He  was  very 
wise  and  able  in  every  business  he  undertook,  and  of  a  deter- 
mined character.  During  the  seven  or  eight  years  he  iiiled  in 
France,  he  made  greater  conquests  than  any  of  his  predecessors 
had  done:  it  is  (rue  ho  was  so  feared  by  his  princes  and 
captains,  that  none  dared  to  disobey  his  orders,  however  nearly 
related  to  him,  more  especially  his  English  subjects.  In  this 
state  of  obedience  were  his  subjects  of  France  and  England 
in  general  ;  and  the  principal  cause  was,  that  if  any  person 
transgressed  his  ordinances,  he  had  him  instantly  punished 
without  favor  or  mercy.  —  Minstretrt,  vol.  v.  p.  375. 

•A  noble  knight  of  Picardy  used  a  joking  expression  to  his 
herald  respecting  king  Henry,  which  was  allerwards  of>i'n 
repeated.  ?ir  Sarrasin  d'  Arly,  uncle  to  the  Vidame  of  Amiens, 
who  might  be  about  sixty  years  of  age,  resided  in  the  castle 
of  Achere,  which  he  had  with  his  wife,  sister  to  the  lord 
d'Offemonl,  near  to  Pas  in  Artois.  Ho  was  laid  up  with  the 
"out,  but  very  eager  in  his  inquiries  after  news  nf  what  was 
going  on.  One  day  his  poursuivant,  named  Ilaurenas,  of  the 
same  age  as  himself,  and  who  had  long  served  him,  rcturn'd 
from  making  the  usual  inquiries;  and  on  sir  Sarrasin  ques- 
tioning him  and  asking  him  if  he  had  heard  any  particulars  of 
the  death  of  the  king  of  England,  he  said  that  he  had,  and 
had  even  seen  his  corpse  .".t  Ablicville,  in  the  church  of  t't. 
Ulfrun  ,  and  then  related  how  he  was  attired,  nearly  as  has 
been  before  descrilied.  The  knight  then  asked  him  on  his 
faith  if  he  had  diligently  observed  him.'  On  his  answering 
that  he  had,  "  Now,  on  thy  oath,  tell  me,"  added  sir  Sarrasin, 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


"  if  lio  had  h^  boots  on  ?  "  "  No,  my  loril,  by  my  fuith  he 
hud  not."  The  kniijlit  then  cried  out,  "  Ilaureuas,  my  good 
I'liond,  novfir  believo  nio  if  ho  htu  not  left  them  in  Franco  I  " 
This  expression  set  the  company  a  lauijliing,  and  then  they 
talked  of  other  matters.  —  JIuiuitrdct,  vol.  v.  p.  377. 

Note   45,  p.  2),  col.  2.  —  Their  dangerous  way. 

The  governor  of  Vuuroulour  appointed  deuz  <;aililshommrjs  to 
conduct  the  .Maid  lo  Chinoii.  '^  [Is  curcnt  peine  d  se  charger 
de  cette  commission,  a  cause  i/u'U  fallotl  pa-iser  uu  travers  du 
pays  enneiiii ;  mais  die  leur  dit  avccfermetc  qu'ils  ne  craiffnis- 
sent  rien,  el  que  suremcnt  etix  et  cllc  arriveroient  aupris  du  roi, 
sans  qu'il  Icur  arricat  rien  defhcheujc. 

lis  patirent,  passerent  par  I'  .^uzerrois  sans  obstacle  quoifjue 
les  .^nirlois  en  f assent  les  mattrcs,  traversirent  plas-icurs  riviircs 
d  la  nage,  entrerent  dans  les  pays  de  la  diminution  du  roi,  c/ti  les 
parties  ennetnies  couroient  de  tous  cOtes,  sans  en  rencontrer 
aucune :  arririrent  heurcusement  d  Chinon  (;ii  le  Roi  ctoit,  ct 
lui  donncrent  a»is  de  Icur  arrivee  et  du  s-ujct  qui  les  amenoit. 
Tiiutle  mondcfat  extrSinementsurpris  d'un  si  long  voyage  fait 
ai-cc  tant  de  bonhcur."  —  P.  Daniel. 

Note  46,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  The  autumnal  rains  had  beaten  to  the 

"JVU  OaUid  perturbatius,  nil  spoliatius,  nil  egentius  esset ; 
sed  neque  cum  milite  melius  agebatur,  qui  tametsi  gaudebat 
pr<eild,  interim  tamcn  trucidebatur  passim,  dam  utirque  rex 
civitales  sua  fuctionis  principes  in  fide  retincre  studerct.  Jgilur 
jam  Ciedium  satictas  utrujnque  popiiluni  erperat,  jaiique  tot  damna 
utrinque  iilata,  ut  quisque  generatim  se  opyressum,  lacera- 
tum,  perditum  ingentisceret,  doloreque  summo  angcretiir,  d'ls- 
mniperetur,  cruciarctur,  ac  per  id  animi  quamvis  obstinatissimi 
ad  pacem  inclinarentur.  Sanul  urge.bat  ad  hoc  reram  omnium 
inopia  ;  passim  cnim  agri  deva.itati  inculti  mariebant,  cum  pra:- 
sertim  homines  pro  vit&  tuendd.,  non  arva  colore  sed  bello  serrire 
necessario  cogerentur.  Ita  tot  urgentibus  vialis,  neuter  a  pace 
abhorrebat,  sed  alter  ab  altera  cam  aut  petere,  vel  adniittere  turpe 
putabat."  —  Polijuore  Virgil, 

The  effect  of  this  contest  upon  England  was  scarcely  leas 
ruinous.  "  In  the  last  year  of  the  victorious  Henry  V.  there 
was  not  a  sufficient  number  of  gentlemen  left  in  England  to 
carry  on  the  business  of  civil  government. 

"  But  if  the  victories  of  Henry  were  so  fatal  to  the  popula- 
tion of  his  country,  the  defeats  and  disasters  of  the  succeeding 
reign  were  still  more  destructive.  In  the  25th  year  of  this 
war,  the  instructions  given  to  the  cardinal  of  Winchester  and 
other  plenipotentiaries  appointed  to  treat  aliout  a  peace, 
authorise  them  to  represent  to  those  of  France  "  that  there 
haan  been  moo  men  slayne  in  these  wars  for  the  title  and 
claimc  of  the  coroune  of  France,  of  oon  nacion  and  other, 
than  been  at  this  daye  in  both  landys,  and  so  much  christiene 
blode  shed,  that  it  is  to  grete  a  sotow  and  an  orrour  to  think 
or  here  it."  —  Henry.     Rymcr's  Fitdera. 

Note  47,  p.  20,  col.  2.  —  Fastolffe''s  better  fate  prevail'd. 

Dunois  was  wounded  in  the  battle  of  Herrings,  or  Rouvrai 

N   TE  48,  p.  21,  col.  1.  —  To  die  for  him  whom  I  have  lined  to 

Tanneguy  du  Chitel  had  Siived  the  life  of  Charles  when 
I  aris  was  seized  by  the  liurgundians.  Lisle  Adam,  a  man 
riOted  for  ferocity  even  in  that  age,  wa.s  admitted  at  midnight 
inio  the  city  with  eight  hundred  horse.  The  partisans  of 
Burgundy  were  under  arms  to  assist  them,  and  a  dreadful 
slaughter  of  the  Armagnacs  ensued.  Du  Cbilol,  then  gov- 
ernor of  the  Bastile,  being  unable  to  restrain  the  tumult,  ran 
to  the  Louvre,  and  carried  away  the  Dauphin  in  his  shirt,  in 
order  to  secure  him  in  his  fortress,  —  Rupin. 

Note  49,  p.  21,  col.  I.  —  To  rcjich  the  o'crhanging  fruit. 

Hifli  favors  like  as  fi;-trecs  are 
That  grow  upon  the  sides  of  rocks,  where  Ihey 
Who  reach  thoir  fruit  adventure  must  so  far 
As  lo  hazard  their  deep  d(jwnfall.  —  Daniel. 

Note  50,  p.  21,  col.  I.  —  j?  banish'd  man.  Damns! 

De  Serres  says,  "  The  king  was  wonderfully  discontented 
for  the  departure  of  Tanneguy  de  Chastel,  whom  he  culled 
lather ;  a  m:in  beloved,  and  of  amiable  conditions.  Hut  there 
was  no  remedy.  Ho  had  given  the  chief  stroke  to  John  Bur- 
gongnc.  So  likewise  he  protested  without  any  (lifllculty,  lo 
retire  himself  wliilhersocvcr  hia  master  should  conimund 

Note  51,  p.  21,  col.  1.  — ....  Richemont,  who  down  the  Loire 
Sends  the  black  carcass  of  his  strangled  foe. 

Kichemont  caused  De  Giac  to  be  strangled  in  his  bed,  and 
thrown  into  the  Loire,  to  punish  Ibe  negligence  that  had  occa- 
sioned him  to  bo  defeated  by  an  inferior  force  at  Avraiiches. 
The  constable  had  l.iid  siege  to  St.  James  de  Beuvron,  a  place 
strongly  garrisoned  by  the  English.  He  had  been  promised  a 
convoy  of  money,  which  De  Gi-ic,  who  had  the  management 
of  the  treasury,  purposely  detained  to  mortify  the  constable. 
Kichemont  openly  accused  the  treasurer,  and  revenged  him- 
self thus  violently.  After  this,  he  boldly  declared  that  he 
would  serve  in  the  same  manner  any  person  whatsoever  that 
should  endeavor  to  engross  the  king's  favor.  The  Camus  of 
Beaulieu  accepted  De  Giac's  place,  and  was  by  the  consta- 
ble's means  assassinated  in  the  kind's  oresence. 

Note  52,  p.  21,  col.  1.  —  Whose  dcatii  my  arm  avenged. 

"  The  duke  of  Orleans  was,  on  a  Wednesday,  the  feast-day 
of  pope  St.  Clement,  assassinated  in  Paris,  about  sever 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  his  return  from  dinner.  The  mur- 
der was  committed  by  about  eighteen  men,  who  had  lodget^ 
at  an  hotel  having  for  sign  the  image  of  our  Lady,  near  the 
Porte  Barbette,  and  who,  it  was  afterwards  discovered,  had 
for  sevenil  days  intended  this  assassination. 

On  the  Wednesday  before  mentioned,  they  sent  one  named 
Seas  de  Courteheu/.e,  valet  de  chanibre  to  the  king,  and  one 
of  their  accomplices,  to  the  duke  of  Orleans,  who  had  gone  to 
visit  the  queen  of  France  at  an  hotel  which  she  had  lately 
purchased  from  Montagu,  grand  master  of  the  king's  house- 
hold, situated  very  near  the  Porte  Barbette.  She  had  lain  in 
there  of  a  child,  which  had  died  shortly  after  its  birth,  ant 
had  not  then  accomplished  the  days  of  her  purification. 

Seas,  on  his  seeing  the  duke,  said,  by  way  of  deceiving  him, 
"  My  lord,  the  king  sends  for  you,  and  you  must  instantly 
hasten  to  him,  for  he  has  business  of  great  importance  lo  you 
and  him,  which  he  must  communicate  to  you."  The  duke,  on 
hearing  Ibis  message,  was  eager  to  obey  the  king's  orders 
although  the  monarch  knew  nothing  of  the  matter,  and  imme- 
diately mounted  his  mule,  attended  by  two  esquires  on  one 
horse,  and  four  or  five  valetb  on  foot,  who  followed  behind 
bearing  torches  ;  hut  his  other  attendants  made  no  haste  to 
follow  him.  He  had  made  this  visit  in  a  private  manner,  not- 
withstanding at  this  time  he  bad  within  the  city  of  Paris 
six  himdred  knights  i.nd  esquires  of  his  retinue,  and  at  his 

On  his  arrival  at  the  Porte  Barbette,  the  eighteen  men,  all 
well  and  secretly  armed,  were  waiting  for  him,  anil  were  lying 
in  ambush  un<ler  shelter  of  a  penthouse.  The  night  was 
pretty  dark,  and  as  they  sallied  out  against  him,  one  cried  out, 
"  Put  him  to  death  '.  "  and  gave  him  such  a  blow  on  the  wrist 
with  his  battle-axe  as  severed  it  from  his  arm. 

The  duke,  astonished  at  this  attack,  cried  out,  "  I  am  the 
duke  of  Orleans  !  "  when  the  a8sa.ssins  continuing  their  blows, 
answered,  "  You  are  the  person  we  were  locking  for."  So 
many  rushed  on  him  that  he  was  struck  off  his  mule,  and  his 
scull  was  split  that  his  brains  were  dashed  on  the  pavement. 
They  turned  him  over  and  over,  and  massacred  him  that  he 
was  very  .»oon  completely  dead.  A  young  esquire,  a  German 
by  birth,  who  had  been  his  page,  was  murdered  with  him  : 
seeing  his  master  struck  to  the  ground,  he  threw  himself  on 
his  body  to  protect  him,  bu*  in  vain,  and  be  suffered  for  his 
generous  courage.  The  horse  which  carried  the  two  es((uires 
that  preceded  the  duke,  seeing  so  many  armed  men  advance, 
began  to  snort,  and  when  he  passed  them  set  out  on  a  gallop, 
so  that  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  checked. 

When  the  esquires  had  slopped  their  horse,  they  saw  their 
lord's  mule  fidlowing  them  full  gallop:  having  caught  him, 
they  fancied  the  duke  must  have  fallen,  and  were  bringing  it 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

back  by  the  bridle  ;  but  on  tlicir  arrival  wliere  their  lord  liiy, 
llicy  were  men;iced  by  the  assassins,  thut  if  they  did  not  in- 
stantly depart  lliey  should  share  liis  f.ite.  Seeing  their  lord 
had  been  thus  basely  murdired,  they  hastened  to  the  hotel  of 
the  queen,  crying  out.  Murder!  Those  who  had  killed  the 
duke,  in  their  turn,  bawled  out,  Fire  !  and  they  had  arranged 
their  plan  that  while  some  were  assassinating  the  duke, 
others  were  to  set  fire  to  their  lodgings.  Some  mounted  on 
horseback,  and  the  rest  on  foot  made  off  as  they  could,  throw- 
ing behind  them  broken  glass  and  sharp  points  of  iron  to 
prevent  their  being  pursuc^d. 

Report  said  that  many  of  them  went  the  back  way  to  tlie 
hotel  d'Artois,  to  their  master  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  who  had 
eonunanded  them  to  do  this  deed,  as  he  afterwards  publicly 
confessed,  to  inform  him  of  the  success  of  their  murder;  when 
instantly  afterward  they  withdrew  to  places  of  safety. 

'I'he  chief  of  these  assassins,  and  the  condni'tor  of  the  busi- 
ness, was  one  called  llollct  d'.\uctonville,  a  Norman,  whom 
the  duke  of  Orleans  had  a  little  before  deprived  of  his  oflice 
of  commissioner  of  taxes,  which  the  king  had  given  to  him  at 
tlie  request  of  the  late  duke  of  Burgundy  :  from  that  time  the 
said  Kollet  had  been  considering  how  he  could  revenge  him- 
self on  the  duke  of  Orleans.  His  other  accom[plices  were 
William  Courteheuze  and  Seas  Courteheuze,  before  men- 
tioned, from  the  country  of  Guines,  John  de  la  Motte,  and 
others,  to  the  amount  of  eighteen. 

Within  half  an  hour  the  household  of  the  duke  of  Orleans, 
hearing  of  this  horrid  murder,  made  loud  complaints,  and 
with  great  crowds  of  nobles  and  others  hastened  to  the  fatal 
Bjiot,  where  they  found  him  lying  dead  in  the  street.  His 
knights  and  esquires,  and  in  general  all  bis  dependants,  made 
grievous  lamentations,  seeing  him  thus  wounded  and  dis- 
figured. With  many  groans  they  raised  the  body  and  carried 
it  to  the  hotel  of  llie  lord  de  Kie'.ix,  marshal  of  France,  which 
was  hard  by;  and  shortly  afterward  the  body  was  covered 
with  a  white  pall,  and  conveyed  most  honorably  to  the 
Guillemins,  where  it  lay,  as  being  the  nearest  church  to  where 
the  nturder  had  been  committed. 

.Soon  afterward  the  king  of  Sicily,  and  ninny  other  princes, 
knights  and  esquires,  having  heard  of  this  foul  murder  of  the 
only  brother  of  the  king  of  France,  came  with  many  tears  to 
visit  the  body.  It  was  put  into  a  leaden  coffin,  and  the 
monks  of  the  church,  with  all  the  late  duke's  household, 
watched  it  all  night,  saying  prayers,  and  singing  psalms  over 
it.  On  tlie  morrow  his  servants  found  the  hand  which  had 
been  cut  off,  and  collected  much  of  the  brains  that  had  been 
scattered  over  the  street,  all  of  which  were  enclosed  in  a 
leaden  case  and  placed  by  the  coffin. 

The  whole  of  the  princes  who  were  at  Paris,  except  the 
king  and  bin  children,  namely,  the  king  of  Sicily,  the  dukes 
of  Berry,  Burgundy,  and  Bourbon,  the  mar(|uis  di|  Pont,  the 
counts  de  Nevers,  de  Clermont,  de  Vendome,  de  St.  Pol,  de 
Danniiartin,  the  constable  of  France,  and  several  others, 
having  assembled  with  a  large  body  of  the  clergy  and  nobles, 
and  a  multitude  of  the  citizens  of  Paris,  went  in  a  body  to 
the  church  of  the  Guilhmiins.  'J'hen  the  principal  ofHcers  of 
the  late  duke's  household  look  the  body  and  bore  it  out  of  the 
church,  with  a  great  number  of  lighted  torches  carried  by  the 
es<piires  of  the  defunct.  On  each  side  of  the  body  were  in 
due  order,  uttering  groans  and  shedding  tears,  the  king  of 
Sicily,  the  dukes  of  Berry,  Burgundy,  and  Bourbon,  each 
holding  a  corner  of  the  pall.  After  the  body  followed  the 
other  princes,  the  clergy  and  barons,  according  to  their  ranks, 
recommending  his  soul  to  his  Creator;  and  thus  they  pro- 
ceeded with  it  to  the  church  of  the  Cclestines.  When  a  most 
solemn  service  bad  been  i)er(brmed,  the  body  was  interred  in 
a  beautiful  chapel  he  himself  had  founded  and  built.  After 
the  service  all  the  princes,  and  others  who  had  attended  it, 
returned  to  their  homes.  —  Monstrelet,  vol.  i.  p.  192. 

NoTi;  53,  p.  21,  col.  1. —  TVken  the  Burgundian  faction  filled 
thy  streets 
With  carnage. 

About  four  o'clock  on  the  12th  day  of  June,  the  populace 
of  Paris  rose  to  the  amount  of  about  sixty  thousand,  fearing 
(as  they  said)  that  the  prisoners  would  be  set  at  liberty,  al- 
though the  new  provost  of  Paris  and  other  lords  assured  them 
to  tlie  contrary.   They  were  armed  with  old  mallets,  hatchets, 

staves,  and  other  disorilerly  weapons,  and  ))araded  through  the 
streets  shouting,  "  Long  live  the  king  and  the  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy 1  "  toward  the  dift'erent  prisons  in  Paris,  namely,  the 
Palace,  St.  INIagloire,  St.  Martin  des  Champs,  the  Cbatelet, 
the  Temple,  and  to  other  places  wherein  any  prisoners  were 
confined.  They  forced  open  all  their  doors,  and  killed  Chepier 
anil  Chcpiere,  with  the  whole  of  the  prisoners,  to  the  amount 
of  sixteen  hundred  or  thereabouts,  the  principal  of  whom 
were  the  count  de  Armagnac,  constable  of  France,  master 
Henry  de  Marie,  chancellor  to  the  king,  the  bislio{)s  of  Cou- 
tances,  of  Bayeux,  of  Evrcux,  of  Senlis,  of  Salutes,  the  count 
de  Grand-Pre,  Itaymonnet  de  la  Guerre,  the  abbot  de  .St. 
Conille  de  Compiegne,  sir  Hector  do  Cbartres,sir  Enguerrand 
de  Marcoignet,  Chariot  Poupart,  master  of  the  king's  ward- 
robe, the  mendiers  of  the  courts  of  justice  and  of  the  treasury, 
and  in  general  all  they  could  find:  among  the  number  were 
several  even  of  the  Burgundian  |iarty  confined  for  debt. 

In  this  massacre  several  women  were  kill<;d,and  left  on  the 
spot  where  they  had  been  put  to  death.  This  cruel  butchery 
lasted  until  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day. 
Those  confined  in  the  grand  Chatelet,  having  arms,  defended 
themselves  valiantly,  and  slew  many  of  the  populace  ;  but  on 
the  morrow  by  means  of  fire  and  smoke  they  were  con(|uered, 
and  the  mob  made  many  of  them  leap  from  the  battlements  of 
the  towers,  when  they  were  received  on  the  points  of  the 
spears  of  those  in  the  streets,  and  cruelly  mangled.  At  this 
dreadful  business  were  present  the  new  provost  of  Paris,  sir 
John  de  Luxembourg,  the  lord  de  Fosseaux,  the  lord  de 
I'Isle-Adam,  the  vidame  of  Amiens,  the  lord  de  Chevreuse, 
the  lord  do  Cbaslellus,  the  lord  de  Cohen,  sir  James  de  Har- 
court,  sir  Eniond  de  Lombers,  the  lord  d'Auxois,  and  others, 
to  the  amount  of  upward  of  a  thousand  combatants,  armed 
and  on  horseback,  ready  to  defend  the  murderers  should  there 
be  any  necessity.  Many  were  shocked  and  astonished  at  such 
cruel  conduct  ;  but  they  dared  not  say  any  thing  except, 
"  Well,  my  boys  !  "  'J'he  bodies  of  the  constable,  the  chan- 
cellor, and  of  Raymonnet  de  la  Guerre  were  strijjped  naked 
tied  together  with  a  cord,  and  dragged  for  three  days  by  the 
blackguards  of  Paris  through  the  streets ;  the  body  of  the 
constable  had  the  breadth  of  two  fingers  of  his  skin  cut  otT 
crosswise,  like  to  a  bend  in  hi^aldry,  by  way  of  derision  : 
and  they  were  thus  publicly  exposed  quite  naked  to  the  sight 
of  all ;  on  the  fourth  day  they  were  dragged  out  of  Paris 
on  a  hurdle,  and  buried  with  the  others  in  a  ditch  called  la 

Notwithstanding  the  great  lords  after  this  took  much  pains 
to  pacify  the  populace,  and  remonstrated  with  them,  that  they 
ought  to  allow  the  king's  justice  to  take  its  regular  course 
against  oftenders,  they  would  not  desist,  but  went  in  great 
crowds  to  the  houses  of  such  as  had  favored  the  Armagnacs, 
or  of  those  whom  they  disliked,  and  killed  them  without 
mercy,  carrying  away  all  they  could  find.  In  these  limes  it 
was  enough  if  one  man  hated  another  at  Paris,  of  whatever 
rank  he  might  be,  Burgundian  or  not,  to  say,  "  There  goes  an 
Armagnac,"  and  be  was  instantly  put  to  death  without  further 
inquirv  being  made.  —  Monstrelet^  vol.  v.  p.  20. 

To  add  to  the  tribulations  of  these  times  the  Parisians  again 
assembled  in  great  nund)crs,  as  they  had  before  done,  and  went 
to  all  the  prisons  in  Paris,  broke  into  them,  and  put  to  death 
full  three  hundred  prisoners,  many  of  whom  had  been  con- 
fined there  since  the  last  butchery.  In  the  number  of  those 
murdered  were  sir  James  de  Mommor,  and  sir  Louis  de 
Corail,  chamberlain  to  the  king,  with  many  nobles  and 
churchmen.  They  then  went  to  the  lower  court  of  the  bas- 
tille of  .St.  Anthony,  and  demanded  that  six  prisoners,  whom 
they  named,  should  be  given  up  to  them,  or  they  would  attack 
the  place  :  in  fact,  they  began  to  pull  down  the  wi'll  of  the 
gate,  when  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  who  lodged  near  the  bas- 
tille, vexed  to  the  heart  at  such  proceedings,  to  avoid  worse, 
ordered  the  prisoners  to  be  delivered  to  them,  if  any  of  their 
leaders  would  promise  that  they  should  be  conducted  to  the 
Chatelet  prison,  and  suffered  to  be  punished  according  to  their 
deserts  by  the  king's  court  of  justice.  Upon  this  they  all 
departed,  and  by  way  of  glossing  over  their  promise,  they  led 
the  prisoners  near  to  the  Chatelet,  when  they  put  them  to 
death,  and  stripped  them  naked.  They  then  divided  into 
several  large  companies  and  paraded  the  streets  of  Paris,  en- 
tering the  houses  of  many  who  had  been  Armagnacs,  plun- 
dering and  murdering  all  without  mercy.     In  like  manner  aa 

NOTES   TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


bclbro,  when  they  met  any  person  lliey  disliked  lie  wuti  sliiin 
instantly;  and  their  prineipal  leader  ua8  Ca|i|ieluche,  the 
liangnian  of  the  city  of  I'aris. 

The  duke  ot' Burgundy,  uLirinei!  at  these  insurrections,  sent 
for  some  of  the  chief  citizens,  with  whom  he  lemnnstratcd  on 
the  consequences  these  disturbances  might  liave.  The  citi- 
zens excused  themselves  t'ron>  being  any  way  concerned,  and 
said  they  were  much  grieved  to  witness  them :  they  added, 
they  were  all  of  the  lowest  rank,  and  had  thus  riseii  to  pillage 
the  more  wealthy  ;  and  Ihey  reijuired  the  duke  to  provide  a 
remedy  by  employing  these  men  in  his  wars.  It  was  then 
proclaimed,  in  the  names  of  the  king  and  the  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, under  pain  of  death,  that  no  person  should  tumultu- 
ously  assemble,  nor  any  more  murders  or  pillage  take  place  ; 
but  that  such  as  had  of  late  risen  in  the  insurrection  should 
prepare  themselves  to  march  to  the  sieges  of  Jlontlehery  and 
Marcoussi,  now  held  by  the  king's  enemies.  The  commonalty 
made  reply,  that  they  would  cheerfully  do  so  if  they  hud 
proper  captains  appointed  to  lead  tlicin. 

Within  a  few  days,  to  avoid  similar  tumults  in  Paris,  six 
thousand  of  the  populace  were  sent  to  Monllebery  under  tho 
command  of  the  lord  de  Cohen,  sir  Walter  de  Uuppes  and  sir 
Walter  Kaillart,  with  a  certain  number  of  men  at  arms,  and 
store  of  cannon  and  animunition  sullicient  for  a  siege.  These 
knights  led  them  to  Moiithhery,  where  they  made  a  sharp 
attack  on  the  Dauphiuois  within  the  castle. 

The  duke  of  liurgundy,  after  I  heir  departure,  arrested 
several  of  their  accomplices,  and  the  principal  movers  of  the 
late  insurrection,  some  of  whom  he  caused  to  be  beheaded, 
others  to  be  hanged  or  drowned  in  the  Seine  ;  even  their 
leader  Cappeluche,  the  hangman,  was  beheaded  in  the  mar- 
ket-place. When  news  of  this  was  carried  to  the  Parisians 
who  had  been  sent  to  Montlehery,  they  marched  back  to 
Paris  to  raise  another  rebellion,  but  the  gates  were  closed 
against  them,  so  that  they  were  forced  to  return  to  the  siege. 

Moiistrelet,  vol.  v.  p.  47. 

To  what  is  it  owing  that  four  centuries  should  have  made 
so  little  dilTerence  in  the  character  of  the  Parisians.' 

Note  54,  p.  21,  col.  2.  — He  will  retreat 

To  distant  Daupliiny. 

"Charles,  in  despair  of  collecting  an  army  which  should 
dare  to  approach  the  enemy's  entrenchments,  not  only  gave 
the  city  of  Orleans  for  lost,  but  began  to  entertain  a  very  dis- 
mal prospect  with  regiird  to  the  general  state  of  his  atiairs, 
lie  saw  that  the  country  in  which  he  had  hitherto,  with  great 
ditficulty,  subsisted,  would  he  laid  entirely  open  to  the  inva- 
sion of  a  powerful  and  victorious  enemy,  and  he  already 
entertained  thoughts  of  retiring  with  the  remains  of  his 
forces  into  Languedoc  and  Daupliiny,  and  defending  himself 
as  long  as  possible  in  those  remote  provinces.  Hut  it  was 
fortunate  for  this  good  prince,  that  as  he  lay  under  the  do- 
minion of  the  fair,  the  women  whom  ho  consulted  had  the 
spirit  to  support  his  sinking  resolution  in  this  desperate  ex- 
tremity. Mary  of  Anjou,  his  ([ueen,  a  princess  of  great 
merit  and  prudence,  vehemently  opposed  this  measure,  which 
she  foresaw  would  discourage  all  his  partisans,  and  serve  as  a 
general  signal  for  deserting  a  prince  who  seemed  himself  to 
despair  of  success:  his  mistress  too,  the  fair  Agnes  Porel, 
who  lived  in  entire  amity  with  the  queen,  seconded  all  her 
remonstrances."  —  Hume. 

L'unfail  honnrur  d  la  belle  .Sgnis  Sorel,  Demoiselle  de  Tnu- 
raine,  maitrcsse  de  ce  Prince,  d'avoir  bcaucoup  contrihiii  d 
I'encouraner  en  cetle  occasion.  On  luffifait  eel  konncur  princi- 
paUinent  au  sujet  d'un  quatrain  rapportc  par  Saint  Gelais, 
comne  aiant  elifait  par  le  Roi  Francois  I.  d  I'/iunneur  de  cette 

Plus  de  louange  el  d'hunncur  la  mcrile. 
La  cause  Hunt  de  France  recouvrer. 
Que  ce  que  pent  dedans  un  Cloitre  ouvrer 

Clause  JVonnain,  ou  bicn  devot  Hermite.  —  P.  Daniel. 

Note  55,  p.  21,  col.  2. — On  a  May  morning deck'd  with fiowcrs. 

Here  in  this  first  race  you  shall  sec  our  kings  hut  once  a 
year,  the  first  day  of  May,  in  their  chariots  deckt  with  flowres 
and  greene,  and  drawn  by  four  oxen.  Whoso  hath  occasion 
to  treat  with  them  let  him  secke  them  in  their  chambers. 

amidst  their  delights.     Let  him  talke  of  any  matters  of  state, 
be  sli:ill  be  sent  to  the  Maire.  —  De  Serres. 

I'liller  calls  this  race  "a  chain  of  idle  kings,  well  linked 
togellier,  who  gave  themselves  over  to  pleasure  privately, 
ni;ver  coming  abroad,  but  onely  on  .May-day  tlioy  showed 
themselves  to  tho  people,  riding  in  a  chariot,  adorned  with 
flowers,  and  drawn  with  oxen,  slou)  cattcl,  but  j;uod  enough 
far  so  luzy  luggat;e.'^  —  Holy  }Varre. 

Ccs  Rois  hideuz  en  longut  larbe  cspesse. 

En  lonfTs  cheveuz,  omez,  presse  sur  presse, 

De  ckaisnes  d'or  et  de  canjuans  gravei, 

Hauls  dans  un  char  en  Iriumphe  elecez, 

Vnefais  I'an  scferunt  voir  en  pompe 

Eiijlez  d^  uH  fard  qui  le  vulgaire  Irompe.  —  Ronsard. 

Note  56,  p.  21,  col.  2. — And  these  long  locks  will  not  dis- 
grace thee  then. 

I^ong  hair  was  peculiar  to  the  kings  in  the  first  ages  of  the 
French  monarchy.  When  Fredegonda  muithered  Clovis 
and  thrown  him  into  tlie  river,  the  fishermen  w  ho  found  his 
body  knew  it  by  the  long  hair.  —  Mezeruy. 

At  a  later  period  the  custom  seems  to  have  become  general. 
Pasquier  says,  "  lors  de  monjciine  aage  nul  n'cstoil  tondu,fors 
les  moines.  Mvint  par  mesadrenture  que  le  roy  Franfois  pre- 
mier de  cc  nom,  ayant  esle  furtuitcment  blessc  d  la  teste  d'un 
tizon,  par  le  capitainc  Lorges,  sieur  de  Montgoumrry,  Irs  mrdf- 
cinsfarciit  d'adcis  de  la  tondrc,  Dcpuis  U  ne  portu  plus  longs 
chcreiiT,  estant  le  premier  de  nos  roys,  qui  par  un  sinistre  augnre 
degenera  de  ccstc  venerable  ancicnnetc.  Sur  son  ciemplc,  les 
princes  prcmicrcmcnt,  puis  les  gcntilshommcs,  el  finalctncnt  tons 
les  suhjccti  se  voulureni  former,  il  nefnt  pas  que  les  Prestrcs  ne 
sc  mrissent  de  ccsle  parlie.  Sur  la  plus  grande  parlie  du  regne 
de  Fraiigois  premier,  et  deuant,  chacun  porloil  longuc  chcvelurc, 
et  barbe  ras,  oil  maintenani  chacun  est  tondu,  et  portc  longue 

Note  C>7,  p.  22,  col.  1.  —  TTiy  mangled  corse  leaves  to  the  winds 
of  heaven. 

Le  Viscomte  de  A''arbonnc  y  pent  aussi,  et  porta  la  peine  de  sa 
tcmcritc,  qui  avoit  etc  une  dcs  principals  causes  de  la  pcrte  de  la 
buttaille.  Le  due  de  Bctfort  aiant  fait,  chcrcher  smi  corps,  le 
fit  ecarteler  et  pcndre  a  un  gibet,  puree  qu'il  passoit  pour  avoir 
etc  complice  de  la  mart  du  due  de  Bourgogne.  —  P.  Daniel. 

Note  58,  p.  22,  col.  1.  — Bretagne's  unfaithful  chief 

Leagues  with  my  foes,  and  Richcmont,  &.c. 

Richemont  has  left  an  honorable  name,  though  he  tied  a 
prime  minister  up  in  a  sack  and  threw  him  into  the  river. 
For  this  ho  had  a  royal  precedent  in  our  king  John,  but 
Richemont  did  openly  what  the  monarch  did  in  the  dark,  and 
there  is  some  difference  between  a  murderer  and  an  execu- 
tioner, even  though  the  executioner  be  a  volunteer.  " /i 
mcrita  sa  grace  (says  Daniel), par  les  services  qu'il  rendil  au  roi 
contrc  les  Anglois,  malgre  ce  prince  mSme.  Ilful  un  des  prin- 
cipnui  autrurs  de  la  reforme  de  la  milicc  Fran^oisc,  qui  prn- 
duisit  la  Iranquillitc  de  la  France  et  les  grands  victoires  dont  cite 
fust  suirie.  L'autorite  qu'il  avoit  par  sa  charge  de  connctable, 
jointr  d  safiTmeti  naturelle,  lui  donna  moyen  de  tenir  la  main  d 
I'obsrrration  dcs  ordonnances  publiees  par  le  roi  pour  la  disci- 
pline militaire ;  et  les  cramples  de  sevcrile  qu'il  fit  d  eel  cgard, 
hiifirnitdonnerlc  surnom  de  justicier.  F.tant  devenu  due  de 
Breliigne,  qurlques  Seigneurs  de  sa  Cour  lui  conseillerent  de  se 
demrltre  de  sa  charge  dr  connctable,  comme  d'unc  (lignite  qui 
etuit  au  drssnus  de  lui.  II  ne  la  voulut  pas,  et  il  faisoit  porter 
devant  lui  deux  epces,  I'une  la  pointe  en  haul,  en  qualiti  de  due 
de  Bretagite,  el  I'autre  dans  lefourreau  le  poinlr  en  bus,  comme 
connctable  de  France.  Son  motive  pour  conserver  la  charge  lie 
connctalilr,  etoit,  disoit  il  d'honorer  duns  sa  vicillcsse  une  charge 
qui  I'aroit  honore  lui-mcmc  dans  un  ase  mains  avanec.  On  le 
pent  compter  au  nombre  des  plu<!  grands  capilainrs  que  la  France 
ait  nis  d  son  service.  II  avoit  beaucoup  de  religion,  il  etoit 
liberal,  aumonirr,  bicnfaisant,  et  on  ne  pent  guires  lui  reprorhcr 
que  la  hauteur  et  la  violence,  dont  il  usa  envers  les  trois 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

Note  59,  p. 22,  col.  2.  —  IVcll  might  the  English  scoff. 

Yet  in  tlie  preceding  ye:ir  1428,  tlie  English  women  liad 
concerned  llicmselves  soniewliut  curiously  in  tlic  alFairs  of 
their  rulers.  "There  was  one  Mistris  Slokes  with  divers 
others  stout  women  of  London,  of  good  reckoning,  wellup- 
parelled,  ciune  openly  to  tlie  upper  parliament,  and  delivered 
letters  to  the  duke  of  Glocester,  and  to  the  archhisliops,  and 
to  the  other  lords  there  present,  containing  matter  of  rehuke 
and  sharp  reprehension  of  the  duke  of  Gloccster,  hecause  he 
would  not  deliver  his  wife  Jaqueline  out  of  her  grievous  im- 
prisonment, heing  then  held  prisoner  hy  the  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, sutfering  her  there  to  remain  so  unkindly,  and  for  his 
public  keeping  hy  him  another  adultresse,  contrary  to  the  law 
of  God,  und  the  honourable  estate  of  matrimony." —  Stowc. 

Note  60,  p.  22,  col.  2.  —  She  fixed  her  eye  on  Charles. 
Of  this  I  may  say  with  Scudery, 

0  merceillc  estomiante,  et  ilifficile  d  craire!  — 
Mais  one  iiuus  rapportotis  sur  lafvij  de  VHistoire. 

Marie,  L.  2. 
Tlic  matter  (says  De  Serres)  was  foiuid  ridiculous  hoth  by  the 
king  and  his  councell,  yet  must  they  make  some  triall.  The 
king  takes  upon  him  the  habit  of  a  countriman  to  be  disguised  : 
this  maid  (being  brought  into  the  chamber)  goes  directly  to 
the  king  in  this  attire,  and  salutes  him  with  so  viodest  a  coun- 
tenance, as  if  she  had  been  bred  up  in  court  all  her  life.  They 
telling  her  that  she  was  mistaken,  she  assured  them  it  was 
the  king,  although  she  had  never  scene  him.  She  begins  to 
deliver  unto  him  this  new  charge,  which,  she  sayes,  she  had 
received  from  the  God  of  Heaven  ;  so  as  she  turned  the  eyes 
and  minds  of  all  men  upon  her." 

Ce  prince  prit  expres  ce  jour-ld  un  habit  fort  simple,  ct  se 
vi£ta  sans  distinction  dans  lafoule  dcs  courtiians.  Lafille  entra 
dans  la  chambre  sans  paroitre  aticnnement  etonnee,  et  qiioiqu,^ 
elle  7i'  eilt  jamais  va  le  roi,  clle  lui  addrcssa  la  parole,  et  Ini  dit 
d'un  tonfernic,  que  Dieu  I'envoyoit  pour  le  secourir,  pourfaire 
lever  le  siege  d' Orleans,  et  le  conduire  d  Reims  pour  y  Stre 
sacre.  Elle  I'assura  que  les  Anglois  scroient  chasses  du  Roy- 
aume,  et  que  sUls  ne  le  quittoient  auplutot,  il  Icur  en  prendroit 
mal.  —  P.  Daniel. 

Note  CI,  p.  22,  col.  2. —  Crown  thee  anointed  king. 

The  anointing  was  a  ceremony  of  much  political  and  mys- 
tical importance.  "  King  Henry  III.  of  England,  being  de- 
sirous to  know  what  was  wrought  in  a  king  by  bis  unction, 
consulted  by  letter  about  it  with  that  great  schoUer  of  the  age 
Robert  Grossetest  bishop  of  Lincoln,  who  answered  him 
thus:  —  'Quod  antem  in  fine  literm  vestrw  nobis  mandas- 
tis,  videlicet  quod  intimaremus  quid,  unctionis  sacramcntum 
videatur  adjicere  regia  dignitali,  cum  multi  sint  reges  qui 
iiullatenus  unctionis  muncra  decorentur,  noii  est  nostrie  modicila- 
tis  complere  hoc.  Tamen  non  ignoramus  quod  regalis  inunctio 
sifTuum  estprerogatirfB  suscepfiunis  septiforniis  doni  Sacratissi- 
mi  Pneumatis,  quod  septiformi  munere  trnetur  rex  inunctus 
prircmineutijis  non  unctis  regihas  oinnes  regias  et  regiminis  sui 
actiones  dirigere  ;  ut  videlicet  non  rommuniter  sed  eminenter  et 
heroici  dono  Timoris  se  prima,  et  drinceps,  quantum  inipso  est, 
suo  regimini  subjectos,  ab  omni  coliiheat  illicito  ;  dono  Pietatis 
defendat  subrenial  et  subveniri  facial  vidua',  pupillo,  et  genera- 
liter  omni  oppresso  ;  duno  Scienti.c  leges  justas  ad  regnum  juste 
rea-endum  ponat,  positas  obscrvet  et  observari  faciat,  erroneas 
destruat;  dono  Fortitudinis  omnia  regno  adversantia  repellat  et 
pro  salute  reipubticie  mortem  von  timeat.  .^d  pnrdicta  antem 
prieccllenter  airenda  dono  Concilii  decorelur,  quo  nrlificialitir  et 
scientific  ordo  hujus  mundi  sensibilis  edocetur  ;  deinde  dono  In- 
tellectus,  quo  cwtus  .^ngelici  ordo  dinoscitur.  Tandem  vera 
dono  Snpientiae,  quo  ad  dilucidam  cognitionem  Dei  pertingitur, 
ut  ad  exemplar  ordinis  mundi  et  ordinis  angclict  secundum  leges 
(ti.ernas  in  O't.ema  Dei  ratione  drscriptas,  qnibus  regit  unnc-si- 
talem  creatune,  rempuhlicam  sibi  subjeclam  ordinabilitcr  regat 
tandem  et  ipse,  .^djicit  igitur  regio!  dignitali  unctionis  sacra- 
mcntum quod  rez  unctus  prre  ccr.teris  in  suo  genere  debet,  ut 
vnetactum  est,  ez  septiformi  Spiritus  munere,  in  omnibus  suis 
regiminis  actibus,  virtutibus  div(nis  et  heroicis  pollerc." 

"And  some  other  have  conceived  this  anointing  of  such 
efficacy,  that,  as  in  baptisme  all  former  sinnes  are  wasbt  awa/, 

so  also  by  this  unction,  us  we  see  in  tliat  of  Polyeuctus  pa- 
triarch of  Constantinople,  who  doubted  not  but  that  tho 
emperor  John  Tzimisces  was  cleerd,  before  Heaven,  of  the 
death  of  I'hocas,  thro'  his  being  anointed  emperor." 

Svlden's  'lilies  of  Honor. 
The  legend  of  the  Ampulla  made  this  ceremony  peculiarly 
important  in  France.     I  ipiote  the  miracle  from   Uesmarcsts. 
Clovis  is  on  his  knees  waiting  to  be  anointed  by  St.  Reraigius. 

Cepcndant  le  prelut  attend  les  huiles  saiiites. 

Un  Diacre  les  parte,  etfuit  un  vain  effort; 

La  foule  impenetrable  empesche  son  abord. 

Du  Pontife  sacre  la  douce  impatience, 

Des  mains  et  dc  la  voix  veut  en  vain  quHl  s'  avance. 

J^ulnepeut  diviser,  par  la  force  des  bras, 

De  tant  de  corps  pressez  I'immobile  ramas. 

Le  prince  humble,  d  genoux,  languissoit  dans  I'attente, 

Mors  qu^uue  clarte  paroisl  plus  eclatanle, 

Esteint  tous  autres  feux  par  su  vive  splendeur, 

Et  repand  dans  le  temple  une  divine  odeur. 

Dans  un  air  lumlneux  une  Colombe  vole. 

En  son  hec  de  coral  tenant  unefiole. 

Elle  apporle  au  prelal  ce  vase  precieux, 

Plein  d'  un  baume  sacre,  rare  present  des  Cieux.  —  Clovis. 

Guillermus  Brito  says  that  the  devil  brake  the  viol  of  oil 
which  Remigius  held  in  his  hand  ready  to  anoint  Clovis,  and 
that  the  oil  being  so  spilt,  he  obtained  by  prayer  a  supply  of  it 
from  heaven.  —  Selden. 

Note  G2,  p.  22,  col.  2.  —  The  doctors  of  theology. 

Ces  paroles  ainsi  par  elle  dicles,lafist  le  roy  remener  kono- 
rablement  en  son  logis,  et  assemble  son  grand  conscil,  au  quel 
furent  plusieurs  prelats,  chevaliers,  escuyers  et  chefs  de  guerre, 
avecques  aucuns  ducteurs  en  theologie  en  loix  el  en  decret,  qui 
tous  ensemble  adviscrent  qu'elle  seroit  iiitcrrogue  pur  les  doc- 
teurs,  pour  essayer  si  en  elle  se  trouveroit  cvidenle  raison  de 
pouvnir  accomplirce  qu'elle  disoit.  Muis  les  docleurs  la  trove- 
rent  de  tant  honneste  contenance,  et  tant  sase  en  ses  paroles,  que 
leur  revelation  faicte,  on  en  tienl  tres  grand  conle. 

Diverses  interrogaliuns  lay  furent  faicles  par  plusieurs  doc- 
teurs  et  autres  gens  de  grand  estal,  a  quay  elle  respondit  moult 
hien,  et  par  especial  a  un  docleur  Jacobin,  qui  lay  dist,  que  si 
Dieu  vouloit  que  les  Anglois  s'en  allassent,  qu'il  ne  falloit  point 
de  armes ;  a  quay  elle  respondit,  qu'elle  ne  vouloit  que  pen  de 
gens  qui  combattroient,  et  Dieu  donneroit  la  victoire. 

History  of  the  Siege  of  Orleans.    Troyes,    1621. 

In  ihe  Qesta  Jnanme.  OalliciB  of  Valerandus  Varanius,  one  of 
the  counsellors  makes   a  speech   of  seventy  lines   uj)on  the 
wickedness  of  women,  mentioning  Helen,  Beersheba,  Semir- 
amis,  Dalilah,  Messalina,  &c.,  as  examples.     The  council  are 
influenced  by  bis  opinion,  and  the  Maid,  to  prove  her  mission, 
challenges  any  one  of  them  to  a  single  combat. 
Qu3  me  stultitid,  quh  me  levitate  notandam 
Creditis  0  patresl  armis  siforsitan,  inquit, 
.ipta  minus  videar,  stricto  procurrereferro 
.Snnuite  ;  hccc  nostri  sint  prima  pericula  martis. 
St  cuique  vis  tanta  animo,  descendat  in  o'quiB 
Planiciem  pugna: ;  mihi  si  victoria  cedat 
Credite  viclrici ;  noster  si  vicerit  hostis 
Compcde  vincta  abeam,  ct  cunctis  simfabula  siBclis. 

Note  63,  p.  23,  col.  2.  —  St.  .Agnes'  Chapel. 

Hanc  virginem   cimtffit  pascendo  pecora  in  sncello  quodam 
vilissimo,  ad  declinandam  phiviam  obdormire  :  quo  in  tempore 
visa  est  se  in  somnis  a  Deo,  qui  se  iUi  oslenderat,  admoneri. 
Jacobus  Philippus  Bergomensis  de  Claris  mulieribus. 

Joanna  Gallica  Puella,  dum  oves  pascit,  tempestate  coocfa  in 
prnximum  sacellum  confugit,  ihi  obdonnicns  liberandte  Gallia: 
mandutum  divinitus  accepit.  —  Bonfinius. 

Ileroino'  nobilissima  .Joanna:  Dare  Lolheringcc  vulgo  Aurelia- 
nensis  Puellir.  historia.  .^uthore  Joanne  Hordal  serenissimi 
ducis  Lotharingce  consiliario.     Ponti-Mussi.     1612. 

Note  64,  p.  23,  col.  2.  —  ....  Saint  .Sgnes  stood 
Before  mine  eijes,  such  and  so  beautiful 
.4.*  irhen,  amid  the  house  of  wickedness, 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


The  Power  whom  with  such  frroent  love  she  served 
yeiVd  htr  with  glory, 

Iiisanus  judex  earn  nudum  ad  lupanar  pertrahi  jussit.  ^f  u6i 
beata  viriro  vestibits  ezula  est,  stutim  criiie  soluto,  lanlam 
capillis  densitatnn  ejus  diviiia  gratia  concessit,  nt  melius  illurum 
fimbriis,  quam  vestibus  tecta  videratur.  lutrogressa  qaidem 
JIgnes  turpiludinis  locum,  Angeiam  Domini  pneparalum 
incenit .-  earn  mot  tanlo  luminc  perfudit,  nt  prtc  magnitudine 
splendoris,  a  ncmine  conspict  possft. 

The  exclamation  of  St.  Agnes  at  the  stako  should  not  bo 
omitted  here.  "  Tlien  Agnes,  in  the  midst  of  the  flames, 
stretching  out  her  liands,  prayed  unto  the  Lord,  saying,  '  I 
bless  thee,  O  Alniiglity  Father !  who  perniiltest  me  to  come 
unto  tliee  fearless  even  in  the  flames.  For  behold!  what  I 
have  believed,  I  see  ;  what  I  liave  hoped,  I  possess  ;  what  I 
have  desired,  I  embrace.  Therefore  I  confess  thee  with 
my  lips,  I  desire  thee  with  my  heart,  with  my  inmost 
entrails ;  I  come  to  thee,  the  living  and  the  true  God ! " 
The  whole  passage,  as  it  stands  in  the  .4ito  Sanctorum,  is  very 
fine.  Tunc  yicurius  Jispasius  nomine,  jussit  in  conspcclu  om- 
nium i<rnem  copiosum  acceitdi,  et  in  medium  cam  pracepit  jnctari 
fiammarum.  Quod  cumfuisset  impltlan>,statim  in  duas  paries 
diviscB  suntJUimmit,  et  hinc  atque  illinc  sedtlwsos  populus  exure- 
bant,  ipsam  aulem  B.  Agnen  pcndus  in  nullo  conlingcbat  incen- 
dium.  Eo  magis  hoc  non  virlutibus  divinis,  sed  maleficiis 
depulanles,  ilabanl /remit us  inter  se  populi,  et  injinitos  clamores 
ad  calum.  Tunc  B,  A_;-nes  expendcns  manus  suas  in  medio 
iirnii  his  verbis  orationcm  fudit  ad  Dominum :  Omnipolnis, 
adorande,  colende,  tremendr.  Pater  Domini  nostri  Jesu  Chrisli, 
benedico  tc  quia  pcrjilium  tuum  unigenitum  evasi  minas  homi- 
nuin  impwrum  et  spurcitias  diaboli  ivipoltuta  transivi.  Kcce  et 
nunc  per  Spiritum  Sanctum  rorc  ca:lesti  pcrfasa  sum  ;  focus 
juxta  me  morUur,  Jlantma  diiiiditur,  et  ardor  incendii  hujus  ad. 
COS  a  qutbus  miiustrulur,  rcfunditur.  Benedico  te  pater  omni- 
potent, qui  etiam  per  flammas,  intropidam  me  ad  te  venire 
permittis.  Ecce  jam  quod  credidi  video,  (juod  speravi  jam 
tenco,  quod  concupivi  complector.  Te  igitur  labiis  confiteor, 
te  corde,  te  totis  visceribus  concupisco.  Ecce  ad  te  venio 
vivum  et  veruni  Deum  ! 

Acta  Sanct,  torn.  ii.  p.  352,  Jan.  21. 
Vita  S.  Agnelis.  Jiuct.  S.  Amltrosio. 

They  have  a  legend  in  Cornwall  that  St.  Agnes  "  e9ca])ed 
out  of  the  prison  at  Rome,  and  taking  shipping,  landed  at  St 
Piran  Arwothall,  from  whence  she  travelled  on  foot  to  what 
is  now  her  own  parish.  But  being  several  times  tempted  by 
the  Devil  on  her  way,  as  often  as  she  turned  about  to  rebuke 
him,  she  turned  him  into  a  stone,  and  indeed  there  are  still 
lo  be  seen  on  the  Downs,  between  St.  Piran  and  St.  Agnes, 
several  large  moor  stones,  pitched  on  end,  in  a  straiglit  line, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  one  from  llie  otlier,  doul)tless 
put  there  on  some  remarkalile  account."  There  lived  then 
in  that  part  of  the  country  a  famous  Wrath  or  Giant,  by  name 
Bolster,  of  that  ilk.  lie  got  hold  oftlie  Suint,  and  obliged  her 
to  gather  up  the  stones  on  his  domain  ;  she  carried  them  in 
three  apron-fulls  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  made  with  them 
three  great  heaps,  from  which  the  hill  is  now  called,  some- 
times Carne  Brcanich,  sometimes  St.  Agnes'  Beacon.  At  last 
this  Giant  or  ffrat/t  attempted  to  seduce  her  ;  she  pretended 
to  yield,  provided  he  would  fill  a  hole  which  she  showed  him 
with  his  blood:  he  agreed  to  this,  not  knowing  that  the  hole 
opened  into  the  sea ;  she  thus  cunningly  bled  him  to  death, 
and  then  tumbled  him  over  the  cliff.  This  they  still  call  the 
fVrath's  Hole.  It  is  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  not  far  from  St. 
Agnes'  chapel  and  well ;  and,  enlarging  as  it  goes  downward, 
opens  into  a  cave  fretted-in  by  the  sea,  and,  from  the  nature 
of  the  stone,  streaked  all  over  with  bright  red  streaks  like 
blood.  After  this  she  lived  some  time  here,  and  then  died, 
having  first  built  her  chapel  and  her  well.  The  water  of  this 
well  is  excellent  ;  and  the  pavement,  they  tell  you,  is  colored 
with  her  own  blood,  and  the  more  you  rub  it,  the  more  it 
shows,  —  such  being,  indeed,  the  nature  of  the  stone.  She 
'ikewise  left  the  mark  of  her  foot  on  a  rock,  not  far  from  it, 
still  called  St.  Agnes'  fool,  which  they  tell  you  will  fit  a  foot 
of  any  size  ;  and  indeed  It  is  large  enough  so  to  do.  These 
monkish  stories  caused  a  great  resort  here  in  former  days,  and 
many  cures  are  pretended  to  have  been  done  by  the  water  of 
this  well,  so  blest  by  her  miraculous  blood."  —  Policliclc^s 
Histonj  of  Cornwall,  i.  176-7.  —  N. 

St.  Agnes,  St.  Catharine,  and  St.  Margaret,  were  thosaiQta 
more  particularly  reverenced  by  the  Maid  of  Orleans. 

Note  65,  p.  24  col.  1.  —  IFas  silence  to  my  sotU 

Through  the  scene  are  faintly  heard 
Sounds  that  are  silence  to  the  mind. 

Charles  Lloyd. 

Note  66,  p.  26,  col.  1.  —  Effaced  the  hauberk''s  honorable  inarks. 

jlfm  d'empccher  Ics  impressions  que  ce  treiUis  de  fcr  devait 
aisser  sur  la  peau,  ou  avail  soin  de  se  matelasser  en  dtssous. 
Malgre  ces  precautions  cepcndant  il  en  laissait  encore  ;  ces  mar- 
ques s^appclldient  camois,  et  on  les  faisait  disparaitre  par  le 
bain.  —  Le  Orand.        .         

Note  67,  p.  26,  col   1.  —  Then,  bow^d  her  to  the  sword  qf  mar- 


Such  is  the  legend  of  St.  Katharine,  princess  of  Alexandria, 
wiiose  story  lias  been  pictured  upon  sign-posts  and  in  churches, 
but  whose  memory  has  been  preserved  in  this  country  longer 
by  the  ale-bouse  than  by  the  altar.  The  most  extravagant 
perha|)s  of  Dryden's  plays  is  upon  this  subject.  In  the  hrst 
edition,  I  had,  ignorantly,  represented  Katharine  as  dying 
upon  the  wheel,  and  the  descri|)tion  of  her  sufferings  was  far 
too  minute.  Dryden  has  committed  the  last  fault  in  a  far 
greater  degree  ;  the  old  martyrologies  particularize  no  cruelties 
more  revolting  to  the  reader  than  he  has  detailed  in  the  speech 
of  Maximin  when  he  orders  her  to  execution. 

From  a  passage  in  the  .Jerusalem  Conquistada  it  should  seem 
that  St.  Katharine  was  miraculously  betrothed  to  her  heavenly 
spouse.  As  the  crusaders  approach  Jerusalem,  they  visit  the 
holy  places  on  their  way  ; 

Qual  visila  el  lugar  con  llanto  tierno, 
Donde  la  hermosa  virgen  Cuterina 

Se  desposo  con  el  Esposo  eterno, 
La  Angelica  Rachel  siendo  madrina  ; 

Aquel  Espnso,  que  el  nevado  invierno 
Se  cuhrio  con  escarcha  matutina, 

El  que  tiene  los  ojos  de  palomas 

Y  del  labia  de  lirio  vierte  aromas.  —  Lope  de  Vega. 

The  marginal  note  adds  La  Virgen  fue  Madrina  en  los  despo 
rios  de  Caterina  y  Christo. 

Of  St.  Margaret,  the  otlier  favorite  Saint  of  the  Maid,  I 
find  recorded  liy  Bergoiiicnsis,  that  she  called  the  pagan 
Pra^fect  an  impudent  dog,  that  she  was  thrown  into  a  dungeon, 
wliere  a  horrible  dragon  swallowed  her,  that  she  crossed  her- 
self, upon  wliieb  the  dragon  immediately  burst  and  she  came 
out  safe,  and  that  she  saw  tlie  devil  standing  in  the  corner 
like  a  black  man,  and  seized  him  and  threw  him  down. 

Absurd  as  this  legend  is,  it  once  occasioned  a  very  extra- 
ordinary murder.  A  young  Lombard,  after  hearing  it,  prayed 
so  earnestly  for  an  opiiortunity  of  fighting  with  the  devil  like 
St.  Margaret,  that  he  went  into  the  fields  in  full  expectation 
that  his  desire  would  be  gratified.  A  hideous  old  dumb 
woman  came  by  :  he  mistook  her  for  the  tempter ;  her  in- 
articulate noises  confirmed  him  in  this  opinion,  and  he  knocked 
her  down  and  trampled  upon  her.  The  poor  wretch  died  ol 
her  bruises  ;  but  a  miracle  was  wrought  to  save  her  murderer, 
in  consideration  that  his  madness  was  a  pious  madness,  and 
before  she  died,  she  spoke  to  excuse  the  mistake.  This  tale 
is  told  in  that  strange  collection  of  ludicrous  stories  upon  re- 
ligious sulijects,  the  Pia  Hdaria.  The  authority  referred  to 
is  Pelr.  Rausani  Hist.  lib.  35. 

Note  68,  p.  26,  col.  2.  —  The  sacred  sword, 

Puella  petiit  gladium,  quern  divinitus  uti  aiebat,  erat  facta 
certitir  in  templo  diva:  Catherimr.  in  Turonibus,  inter  antiqun 
donaria  pendcre.  Miratus  Carolus,  gladium  inquiri,  ac  invcn- 
tum  prutmus  Puella;  affirri  ju.^sit.  —  Pohjdnre  Virgil. 

Roland,  or  rather  Orlando,  for  it  is  Ariosto  who  has  im- 
mortalized him,  was  buried  with  Durindana  nt  his  side,  and 
his  horn  Olifant  nt  his  feet.  Cbnrlemain  also  had  his  good 
sword  .loyeusc  buried  with  him.  He  placed  in  his  sep- 
ulchre on  a  golden  throne,  crowned  and  habited  in   his  im 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

perial  robes,  thoujfh  a  ciUcc  was  next  his  skin  ;  one  liand  hold 
a  f;lol)e  of  gold,  the  other  rested  on  the  (lospels,  wliicli  were 
lying  on  his  knees.  His  shield  and  sceptre  were  hung  oii- 
posite  to  him,  on  the  side  of  the  sepulchre,  which  was  filled 
with  perfumes  and  spices,  and  then  closed.  Tizuna  was  buried 
with  the  Cid,  no  living  man  being  worthy  to  wield  that  sword 
with  which  the  Campeador,  even  after  death,  had  triumphed  ; 
and  which  had  been  miraculously  half  drawn  from  the  scabbard 
to  avenge  the  insult  offered  by  a  Jew  to  his  corpse. 

Note  G9,  p.  26,  col.  2.  —  Tliey  partook  the  feast, 

Cette  cirimonie  chei  Us  grands  s'annongait  au  son  du  cor,  ou 
au  son  iViinc  cloche  ;  coutumc  qiii  subsiste  encore  dans  les  ccmvens 
et  les  7naisons  npulcntes,  pour  announcer  le  convert  et  le  dtner. 
,^pres  le  service  des  viandcs,  c'est-d-dirc.  apris  ce  que  nous  up- 
pellons  entrees,  rili  et  entremets,  on  sortait  de  table  pourse  lavrr 
les  mains  une  sccondefiiis,  comme  chci  le  Romains  de  qui  parait 
Stre  venu  cct  usage.  Les  domestiqaes  desservaient  pendant  cc 
terns ;  Us  enlevaient  une  des  nappes  et  apporlaient  les  cuvfitiircs 
{qu'on  nommait  epices)  et  les  vins  composes.  .4  ce  moment,  fail 
pour  la  gaiete,  commengaient  les  decis  plaisans  ctjoijeut  prupiis, 
car  dans  ce  ban  vieux  terns  on  aimait  heaucoup  de  rire.  C'ctait 
alors  que  les  mcnctriers  venoient  reciter  leurs  fabliaux,  lorsqu'on 
admcttait  leur  presence.  —  Le  Orand. 

Note  70,  p.  26,  cnl.  2.  —  Or  luscious  with  metheglin  mingled  rich. 

11  y  avail  plusieurs  sortes  de  ces  vins  prepares  qu'on  servait 
apris  les  viandes.  1.  Les  Vins  cuits,  qui  sont  encore  en  usage 
dans  quelques  provinces,  et  qui  ont  conserve  le  m6me  iiom.  2. 
Cent  aicxquels  on  ajoutait  le  sue  de  quelque  fruit,  tels  que  le 
Moid, /ait  avec  du  jus  de  mure.  3.  Ceuz  qu'on  assaisonnait 
avec  da  miel,  comme  le  Nectar,  le  Medon,  S[c.  4.  Ccui  OTJtl'un 
faisait  infaser  des  ptantes  mcdieinales  ou  aromntiques,  et  qui 
prenaient  leur  nam  de  ces  plantes,  Vins  d'Absinthe,  de  Myrthe, 
d'Alotjs,  &,c.  Lc  Roman  de  Florimmit  les  appclle  Vins  herhez. 
5.  F.nfn  ceuz  dans  Irsquels,  outre  le  miel,  il  entruit  des  epices. 
On  appellait  ces  derniers  du  nom  general  de  Pimens.  Cetoient 
les  plus  estimcs  dc  tous.  JVus  auteu  rs  n'en  parlent  qu'avec  delices. 
II  eilt  manqui  quehpic  chose  d  une  fete  ou  d  un  repas,  si  on  n'lj 
edt  point  servi  da  Piment  ■■  et  I'an  on  donnait  memc  aut  moincs 
dans  les  couvens  d  certains  jours  de  I'annee.  —  Lc  Orand, 

Note  71,  p.  2G,  col.  2.  — the  youth 

Of  Cornwall. 
Sir  Tristram  du  Lyones. 

Note  72,  p.  27,  col.  1.  — and  he  who  struck 

The  dolorous  stroke. 
Sir  Balin  le  Sauvage. 

Note  73,  p.  27.  col.  1 .  —  Like  that  divinest  Tuscan. 

Note  74,  p.  27,  col.  2.  —  Thou  canst  not  with  thy  golden  belt 
put  on 
An  honorable  name. 

Du  proverbe  Bonne  renommee  vaut  mieuz  que  ceinture  doree. 

Lisant  un  arrest  avcim  qui  est  encores  pour  lejoiird'huy  inscre 
OALX  registres  du  Chastelet  de  Paris,  j'eslimay  qu'en  ce  proverbe 
il  y  avoit  une  notable  sentence,  et  une  longuc  anciennetc  tout  en- 
semble. Car  par  arrest  qui  est  du28dejuinl4;i0,ilestporl6 
en  tennes  erprcs  que  deffenses  sont  faites  d  toutcs  fcmmes  amou- 
reuses,  files  dc  joye,  ct  paillardes  de  ne  porter  rohbes  d  collets  rcn- 
versei,  queues,  ne  celntures  dorers,  boutonniers  d  leurs  chaperons, 
sur  peine  de  confiscation  et  amende,  et  que  les  huissiers  de  parle- 
ment,  commissaires  et  sergents  du  Chastelet  qui  les  trouveroient, 
eussent  d  les  mener  prisonnieres. 

j9h  surplus  {je  diray  cecy  en  passant)  d  la  mienne  volont6  que 
ceuz  qui  donnerent  eest  arrest  eussent  tournc  la  chance,  et  que  non 
seuXement  ces  ceintures  dorees,  aiiis  en  toutes  autres  dorures,  ct 
affliquets,  ils  eussent  fait  def^ences  d  tnutrs  femmes  d'honncur 
d'emporter,  sur  peine  d'estre  declarees  putains  ;  car  il  n'y  auroit 
point  plus  prompt  moyen  que  cestuy,  pour  bannier  le  superjluite 
et  bombance  des  dames.  —  Pasquier, 

Note  75,  p.  28,  col.  1.  —  J  knew  myself, 

Hmc  igitur  Janna  Pulcella  virgo,  cum  magnani  gloriam  in 
armis  esset  adepta,  et  regnum  Franeorum  magnd,  ex  parte  deper- 
ditum,  e  manilms  Anglorum  pugnando  eripuisset,  in  sua  flurcnle 
(jctate  cunstUuta,  non  snUtiii  se  morituravi,  sed  et  genus  suce  m&r~ 
tis  cunctis  prixdirit.  — Bergomensis. 

Note   70,  p.  28,  col.  ].  —  There  is  a  ] 

There  is  a  path  which  no  fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vul- 
ture's eye  hath  not  seen  :  the  lion's  whelps  have  not  trodden 
it,  nor  the  fierce  lion  passed  by  it.  — ,/ob,  .\xviii.  7,  8. 

Note   77.  p.  28,  col.  1 . is  Ihcy  did  hear  the  loud  alarum  bell. 

"  In  sooth  the  estate  of  France  was  then  most  miserablo. 
There  appeared  nothing  but  a  horrible  face,  confusion,  poverty, 
desolation,  solitarinesse  and  feare.  The  lean  and  bare  la- 
bourers in  the  country  did  terrific  even  theeves  themselves, 
who  had  nothing  lift  them  tospoile  but  the  carkasses  of  these 
poorc  miserable  creatures,  wandi'ring  up  and  down  like  ghostes 
(irawne  out  of  tlieir  graves.  The  least  furmes  and  hamlets 
were  fortified  by  these  robbers,  English,  Bourguegnons  and 
French,  every  one  striving  to  do  his  worst  :  all  men  of  war 
were  well  agreed  to  spoile  the  countryman  and  merchant. 
Even  the  cattell,  accustomed  to  the  larume  bell,  the  signe  of  Vie 
enemy's  approach,  would  run  Jiome  of  tltcnisclves  without  any 
guide  by  this  accustomed  misery." 

This  is  the  perfect  description  of  tliose  times,  taken  out  of 
the  lamentations  of  our  ancestors,  set  down  in  the  original, 
says  De  Scrres.  But  amidst  this  horrible  calamity,  God  did 
comfort  both  the  king  and  realme,  for  about  the  end  of  the 
yeere,  he  gave  Charles  a  goodly  sonne  by  queen  Mary  his 

Note  78,  p.  28,  col.  2.  —  JVas  cls  a  pilgrim. 

O  my  people,  hear  my  word  :  make  you  ready  to  the  battle, 
and  in  those  evils,  be  even  as  pilgrims  upon  the  earth. — 
2  Esdras,  xvi.  40. 

Note   79,  p.  28,  col.  2.  —  Cast  the  weak  nature  off! 

Let  go  from  thee  mortal  thoughts,  cast  away  the  burdens  of 
man,  put  oft' now  the  weak  nature, 

And  set  aside  the  thoughts  that  are  most  heavy  unto  thee, 
and  haste  thee  to  flee  from  those  times.  — 2  Esdras,  xiv.  14, 15. 

Note  80,  p.  29,  col.  2.  —  Worthy  a  happier,  not  a  better  love. 
Digna  minus  miscro,  non  meliore  viro.  —  Ovid. 

Note   81,  p.  29,   col.  2. lind  I  must  put  away  all  mortal 

—  2  Esdras,  xiv.  14. 

Note  82,  p.  31,  col.  1.  —  Ruin  rush'd  round  us. 

"  To  succeed  in  the  siege  of  Orleans,  the  English  first  se- 
cured the  neighboring  places,  which  might  otherwise  have 
annoyed  the  besiegers.  The  months  of  August  and  September 
were  spent  in  this  work.  During  that  S|)ace  they  took  Mehun, 
Baugeiici,  Gergeau,  Clery,  Sully,  Jenville,  and  some  other 
small  towns,  and  at  last  appeared  before  Orleans  on  the  12th 
of  October."  — iJ«pin. 

Note  83,  p.  31,  col.  2.  —  Soon  sadden'd  Orleans. 

"The  French  king  used  every  expedient  to  supply  the  city 
with  a  garrison  and  provisions,  and  enable  it  to  maintain  a 
long  and  obstinate  siege.  The  lord  of  Gaucour,  a  brave  and 
experienced  captain,  was  ajipointed  governor.  Many  officers 
of  distinction  threw  themselves  into  the  place.  The  troops 
which  they  conducted  were  inured  to  war,  and  were  deter- 
mined to  make  t)ie  most  obstinate  resistance:  and  even  the 
inhabitants,  disciplined  by  the  long  continuance  of  hostilities, 
were  well  qualified  in  their  own  defence,  to  second  the  efforts 
of  the  most  veteran  forces.  The  eyes  of  all  Europe  were 
turned  towards  this  scene  ;  where,  it  was  reasoiialily  sup- 
posed, the  F'rench  were  to  make  their  last  stand  for  maintain- 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


ing  the  indopnnJoiicoof  thoir  monarchy,  and  the  rights  of  their 
sovereign."  —  Hume.  

Note  64,  p.  31,  col.  2.  —  The  Sire  ChaptUe. 

This  title  was  not  disoriniinatcly  used  by  tlio  French. 
Chupeile  19  sometimes  styloii  le  sire,  and  sometimes  (rfiitU' 
homiiie  (tc  Beaiuise,  l>y  Daniel.  Tlio  same  title  was  applied  to 
the  Almighty,  and  to  princes ;  and  Selden  observes  from 
Pasquier,  "  Ihoaa  ancient  barons  affected  rather  to  be  stilod 
by  the  name  of  sire  than  baron,  and  the  baron  of  Coucy 
carried  to  that  purpose  this  rithmo  in  his  device  : 

Je  ne  suis  roy  ne  prince  aiissi, 
Je  suis  Ic  sire  ile  Coiicij." 

Note  So,  p.  31,  col.  2.  —  Can  never  wield  Vie  crucifii  that  hilts 
His  hallowed  sword. 

"  At  the  creation  of  a  knight  of  Rhodes  a  sword,  with  a 
cross  for  the  hill,  was  delivered  to  him  in  token  that  his  valor 
must  defend  religion.  No  bastard  could  be  a  knight  hospi- 
taller, from  whose  order  that  of  Khodes  was  formed,  except 
a  bastard  to  a  prince,  there  being  honor  in  that  dishonor, 
as  there  is  light  in  the  very  spots  of  the  moon." 

Fuller's  Ilistvrie  of  the  Holy  Wiirre. 

Note  86,  p.  31,  col.  2. 9nd  that  young  duke. 


Note  87,  p.  31 ,  col.  2.  —  La  Hire,  the  inerriest  man. 

"  In  the  late  warres  in  France  between  king  Henry  the  fiflh 
of  England  and  Charles  the  seventh  of  France,  the  French 
armie  being  in  distresse,  one  cajilain  La  Hire,  a  Frenchman, 
was  sent  to  declare  unto  the  said  French  king  the  estate  and 
affaires  of  the  warre,  and  how  for  want  of  victuals,  money, 
and  other  necessaries,  the  French  h:id  lost  divers  townes  and 
hattailes  to  the  English.  The  French  king  being  disposed  to 
use  his  captaiiie  familiarly,  shewed  him  such  thinges  as  him- 
self was  delighted  in,  as  his  buildings,  his  banquets,  fuire 
ladies,  &.C.,  and  then  asked  the  c.iptaine  how  iioc  liked  them  ; 
'  Trust  me,  sir,'  quoth  the  caplaine,  speaking  his  mind  freely, 
'  I  did  never  know  any  prince  that  more  delighted  himself 
with  his  losses,  than  you  doe  with  yours.'  " —  Stowe, 

'  La  Hire  trouva  ung  chapelain  auquel  il  dit  iju'il  luy  donnast 
liastivemerit  Vabsolution  :  et  le  chapelain  luy  dit  qu'cl  confessast 
ses pesches.  La  Hire  luy  respondil  qa'il  n'auruit  pas  loisir,  car 
ilfalloit  proviptement  frapper  sur  I'cnneinij,  et  qu'il  avoitfuict  cc 
que  gens  dc  guerre  out  accoustunic  defairc.  Et  lors  La  Hire  fit 
sa  priire  d  Dieu  en  disant  en  sun  Gascon,  les  mains  joinctcs:  — 
'  le  prie  que  tu  faces  aujoiird'huy  puur  La  l{ire  autant 
que  tu  vouldrois  que  La  Hire  fst  puur  toy,  se  il  estuit  Dieu,  et 
que  tu  fusses  La  Hire.'  —  £(  il  cuiduil  trcs  lien  pricr  et  dire. 

Chronique  sans  titre.     Li:  Brun  dc  Charmttles,  t.  i.  p.  102. 

There  is  an  English  epitaph,  horrowed  from  those  words 
of  the  French  captain. 

Note  88,  p.  31,  col.  2. —     the  suburbs  lay 

One  ample  ruin. 

"They  pulled  down  all  the  most  considerable  buildings  in 
the  suburbs,  and  among  tho  rest  twelve  churches  and  several 
monasteries  ;  that  the  English  might  not  make  use  of  them  in 
carrying  on  the  siege."  —  Rnpin.    JHunstrelct. 

Note  89,  p.  33,  col.  1.  —  jVk  ^nore  the  merry  viol's  note  iras 

Tho  instrument  which  most  frequently  served  for  an  accom- 
paniment to  the  harp,  and  which  disputed  the  preeminence 
with  it  in  the  early  times  of  music  in  France,  was  the  viol ; 
and  indeed,  when  reduced  to  four  strings,  and  stript  of  the 
frets  with  which  viols  of  all  kinds  seem  to  have  been  furnished 
till  the  Ifith  century,  it  still  holds  tho  first  place  among  treble 
instruments,  under  the  denomination  of  violin. 

The  viol  played  with  a  bow,  and  wholly  different  from  the 
viclle,  whose  tones  are  produced  by  the  friction  of  a  wheel, 
which  indeed  performs  the  part  of  a  how,  was  very  early  in 
favor  with  the  inhabitants  of  France. 

Bumey's  History  of  Music. 


Note  90,  p.  32,  col.  I. —  Call'd  on  Saint  .Signan's  name. 

^t.  Aignan  was  the  tutelary  saint  of  Orleans.  Ile  had  mi- 
raculously l)een  chosen  bishop  of  that  city  when  Attila  besieged 
it.  "  Cumme  les  citoycns  effruyez  eurcnt  rccours  a  leur  prclat, 
luy,  sans  sc  soucier,  pour  le  salut  dc  siens,  sortit  de  la  villc  et 
parla  a  Jittila.  Mais  ne  I'ayant  pu  flcrhir,  d  se  mit  en  priercs, 
Jitfairc  dcs  processions,  et  porter  par  les  rues  les  rcliques  des 
saints.  Un  prcstre  s'etant  vwcque,  disant,  que  eela  n'aroit  dc 
rein  profile  aux  autres  villes,  tomba  roidc  mart  sur  la  place,  por- 
tant :  par  ce  moyen  la  peine  de  son  insoiente  temerite.  Jipres 
ttiutcs  ches  ehoses,  il  commamla  aux  habitans  dc  voir  si  le  secours 
n'arriiwit  point ;  ayant  6t6  rcpondu  que  non ,  il  sc  rcmet  en  pricres, 
et  puis  leur  fait  mesnie  commandement :  mais  n'appercevant  point 
encore  de  secours,  pour  la  troisieme  fois  il  se  prostema  a  trrrc, 
Ic.i  yeuz  et  I'esprit  vers  le  del.  Se  sentant  ezaucc,  il  fait  mon- 
ter  a  la  gucrite,  et  luy  rapporte-t-on  que  Von  ne  voyoit  ricn  si  non 
une  grosse  nuce  de  poussiere,  il  assiiere  que  c'etoit  le  secours 
d'.Mtius  et  de  Teudo  Roy  des  Ootlts,  lesquels  tardans  a  sc  mon- 
trer  a  I'armee  d'Mlila,  S.  Jlignan  fat  divincmait  transporte  en 
leur  camp,  et  les  advcrlit  que  tout  estoit  pirdu,  s'ils attendoient  au, 
lendeniain.  lis  parurent  aussi-tost,  et  furccrent  .HttUa  de  lever 
si  hativcnient  le  siege,  que  plusieurs  des  siens  se  noyerent  dans  la 
Loire,  d'autrcs  s'cntretuercnt  avrc  regret  d'acoir  perdu  la  villc. 
Et  non  contcns  de  cctte  victoirc,  le  puursuivirent  si  vivement  avec 
le  Roy  Mcrouec,  qui  sc  vinl  joindre  a  euz,  qu'ils  le  defircnt  en 
battaiUe  ran  gee  prcs  dc  Cli&hns,  jonchant  la  campagne  de  180,000 

Le  nouvcau  Parterre  dcs  ficurs  des  vies  des  Saints.  Par  P. 
Ribadeneira,  Andre  du  Val  et  Jean  Baudoin.    Lyons,  1G6G. 

Note  91,  p.  32,  col.  2.  — the  treat,y  ratified 

At  Troyes. 
"  By  the  treaty  of  Troyes,  Charles  was  to  remain  in  quiet 
possession  of  the  royal  dignity  and  revenues.  After  his  death 
the  crown,  with  all  its  rights  and  dominions,  devolved  to  Henry 
and  his  heirs.  The  imbecility  of  Chiirles  was  so  great  that  he 
could  not  appear  in  public,  so  that  the  queen  and  Burgundy 
swore  for  him."  —  Hupin. 

Note  92,  p.  33,  col.  1. —  Salisbury,  their  watchful  chief. 

"  The  besiegers  received  succors  in  the  very  beginning  of 
the  siege  ;  but  the  earl  of  Salisbury,  who  considered  this  en- 
terprise as  a  decisive  action  for  the  king  his  master,  and  his 
own  reputation,  omitted  nothing  to  deprive  the  besieged  of  that 
advantage.  He  run  up  round  the  city  sixty  forts.  How  great 
soever  this  work  might  be,  nothing  could  divert  him  from  it, 
since  the  success  of  the  siege  entirely  depended  upon  it.  In 
vain  would  be  have  pursued  his  attack,  if  the  enemies  could 
continually  introduce  fresh  supplies.  Besides,  the  season,  now 
far  advanced,  suggested  to  him,  that  he  would  be  forced  to  pass 
the  winter  in  the  camp,  and  during  that  time  he  liable  to  many 
insults.  Among  the  sixty  forts,  there  were  six  much  stronger 
than  the  rest,  U|)on  the  six  principal  avenues  of  the  city. 
The  French  could  before  w  ith  ease  introduce  convoys  into  the 
place,  and  had  made  frequent  use  of  that  a(ivantage.  But 
after  these  forts  were  built,  it  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that 
they  could,  now  and  then,  give  some  assistance  to  the  be- 
sieged. Upon  these  six  redoubts  the  general  erected  butteries, 
which  thundered  against  the  walls."  —  Rapin, 

Note  93,  p.  33,  col.  1.  —  7'Ac  six  great  avenues  meet  in  the 
Rheims  had  six  principal  streets  meeting  thus  in  one  centre, 
where  the  cathedral  stood. 

Au  ccntri  de  la  ville,  entre  six  aveniles, 
S'cleve  un  saeri  temple  a  la  hauteur  des  nues. 


Note  94,  p.  33,  col.  l.  —  Possess'd  the  ToumeUes, 
"  The  bulwark  of  the  Tournellea  being  much  shaken  by  tho 
besiegers'  cannon,  and  the  besieged  thinking  it  proper  to  set 
it  on  fire,  the  English  extinguished  the  flames,  and  lodged 
themselves  in  that  post.  At  the  same  time  they  became 
masters  of  the  tower  on  the  brirlge,  from  whence  the  whole 
city  could  be  viewed."  —  Rapin. 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

Note  95,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  The  ponderous  stone  with  hideous  crash 
Came  like  an  edrthquakc. 

Les  bombardes  vomissaient  drs  boulets  de  picrrr,  dont  quel- 
quemins  pesaicnt  jusqu'  d  cent  seize  Utrres.  Ces  7nasses  effray- 
antes,  lancces  d  la  maniirc  dc  vos  boinbes,  produisaicnt  en  tom- 
bant  sur  Ics  edifices,  I'effet  de  la  foudre.  —  Le  Bran  de  Char- 
melies,  i.  p.  122.  

Note  96,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  The  wdd-Jire  balls  hiss'd  through  the 
■midnight  sky. 
Drayton  eniimcratcs  these  among  the  English  preoarations 
for  war : 

"  The  engineer  provided  the  petard 
'J'o  break  the  strong  portcullies,  and  the  balls 
Of  wild-fire  devised  to  tlirow  from  far 
To  burn  to  ground  their  palaces  and  halls." 

And  at  the  siege  of  Harfleur  he  says, 

"  Their  brazen  slings  send  in  the  wild-firo  balls." 

"  Balls  of  consuming  wild-fire 
That  lickt  men  up  like  lightning,  have  I  laughed  at. 
And  tost  'em  back  again  like  children's  trifles." 

B.  and  F.  ;   The  Mad  Lover. 

"  I  do  command  that  particular  care  be  had,  advising  the 
gunners  to  have  half  butts  ivitli  water  and  vinegar,  as  is  ac- 
customed, with  bonnets  and  old  sails,  and  wet  mantels  to  de- 
fend fire,  that  a^  often  is  thrown. 

"  Every  sliip  shall  carry  two  boats  lading  of  stones,  to  throw 
to  profit  in  the  time  of  fight  on  the  deck,  forecastle  or  tops, 
according  to  his  burden. 

"  That  the  wild-fire  be  reparted  to  the  people  most  expert, 
that  we  have  for  the  use  thereof,  at  due  time  j  for  that  if  it  be 
not  overseen,  giving  charge  thereof  to  those  that  do  understand 
it,  and  such  as,  we  know,  can  tell  how  to  use  it ;  otherwise 
it  may  happen  to  great  danger." 

Orders  set  doicn  by  the  duke  of  Medina  to  be 
observed  in  the  voyage  toward  England. 

Hail.  Misc.  vol.  i. 
"  Some  were  preparing  to  toss  balls  of  wild-fire,  as  if  the  sea 
had  been  their  tennis-court." 

Deliverance  of  certain  Christians  from  the  Turks. 

Harl.  Misc.  vol.  i. 

Note  97,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  Poisonous  pollution. 

Thus  at  the  siege  of  Thin  sur  I'Escault.  "  CeuU  de  lost  leur 
gectoiait  par  leur  engins  chevauh  mors  et  autres  bestes  mortes  et 
puantes,  pour  les  empuantir,  dont  ill  estoient  la  dedans  en  moult 
grant  de^stresse.  Car  lair  estoit  fort  et  chault  ainsi  comme  en 
plein  este,  el  de  cefurent  plus  constrains  que  dc  nulle  autre  chose. 
Si  considerent  finablemenl  cntre  euli  que  crlle  messaise  Hz  ne 
pourroient  longucment  endurer  ne  sovffrir,  tant  leur  estoit  la 
punaisie  ubhominable." —  Froissart,  1.  38. 

This  was  an  evil  which  sometimes  annoyed  the  besieging 
army.  At  Dan  '^ pour  la  puautise  des  bestes  que  Ion  tuoit  en 
lost,  et  des  chevault  qui  estoient  inors,  lair  estoit  tout  corrumpu, 
dont  moult  de  chevaliers  et  escuyers  en  estoient  malades  et  mclen- 
colieuz,  et  sey  alloient  les  plusieurs,  refreschir  a  Bruges  et  ail- 
leurspour  eviter  cc  mauvais  air."  —  Froissart,  I.  17.5. 

Note  98,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  Crowded  in  unwholesome  vaults 

At  Thin  sur  1'  Escault,  "  La  fist  le  due  charter  grant  foison 
d'cngins  de  Cambray  et  de  Douay,  et  en  y  cut  sij:  moult  grans,  le 
due  les  fist  lever  devant  la  fortcresse.  Lesqlz  engins  gectuient 
nuyt  et  jour  grosses  pierres  et  mangonneauli  qui  nbatoient  les 
combles  et  le  hault  des  tours  des  r.hambres  et  des  salles.  Et  en 
contraignoient  les  gens  du  Chastel  par  ccst  assault  tresdure- 
ment.  Et  si  no.nent  les  compaignons  qui  le  gar/loirnt  demourer 
en  cliambres  7ien  sales  quilz  eussent,  mais  en  caves  et  en  ccliers." 
—  Froissart,  1.  38. 

Note  99,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  Eager  to  mark  the  carrion  crow 
for  food. 

Scudery  has  a  most  ingenious  idea  of  the  effects  of  famine  : 
during  the  blockade  of  Rome  by  the  Goths,  he  makes  the 
inhabitants  first  eat  one  another,  and  then  eat  themselves. 

La  rage  se  meslant  d  leurs  douleurs  eztrimrs, 

lis  se  mangent  I'un  I'autre,  ils  se  mangent  euz-mesmes. 

Fuller  expresses  the  want  of  food  pithily.     "  The  siego 
grew  long,  and  victuals  short." 

Note  100,  p.  33,  col.  2.  —  IVhen  in  the  San  Vie  Angel  of  the 

And  I  saw  an  Angel  standing  in  the  sun  ;  and  he  cried  with 
a  loud  voice,  saying  to  all  the  fowls  that  fly  in  the  midst  of 
heaven,  Come  and  gather  yourselves  together  unto  the  supper 
of  the  great  God  : 

That  ye  may  eat  the  flesh  of  kings,  and  the  flesh  of  captains, 
and  the  flesh  of  mighty  men,  and  the  flesh  of  horses,  and  of 
them  that  sit  on  them.  —  Revelation,  xix.  17,  18. 

A  similar  passage  occurs  in  E/.ekiel. 

And  thou,  son  of  man,  thus  saitli  the  Lord  God,  Speak  unto 
every  feathered  fowl,  and  to  every  beast  of  the  field.  As- 
semble yourselves,  and  come  ;  gather  yourselves  on  every  side 
to  my  sacrifice  that  I  do  sacrifice  for  you,  even  a  great  sacri- 
fice upon  the  mountains  of  Israel,  that  ye  may  eat  flesh  and 
drink  blood. 

Ye  shall  cat  the  flesh  of  the  mighty,  and  drink  the  blood  of 
the  princes  of  the  earth,  of  rams,  of  lambs,  and  of  goats,  of 
bullocks,  all  of  them  fatlings  of  Bashan. 

And  ye  shall  eat  fat  till  ye  be  full,  and  drink  blood  till  ye 
be  drunken,  ofmy  sacrifice  which  I  have  sacrificed  for  you. 

Thus  ye  shall  be  filled  at  my  table  with  horses  and  chariots, 
with  mighty  men,  and  with  all  men  of  war,  saith  the  Lord 
God.  —  Eickiel,  xxxix.  17,  &c. 

Note    101,  p.  3*1,  col.  2.  —  Prevent  the  pang  of  famine. 

Fuller  calls  this  "resolving  ratlier  to  lose  their  lives  by 
wholesale  on  the  point  of  the  sword,  than  to  retail  them  out 
by  famine."  

Note  102,  p.  35,  col.  1.  — Jls  when  the  Mexicans. 

"  It  was  the  belief  of  the  Mexicans,  that  at  the  conclusion 
of  one  of  their  centuries  the  sun  and  earth  would  be  destroyed 
On  the  last  night  of  every  century  they  extinguished  all  their 
fires,  covered  the  faces  of  the  women  and  children,  and  ex- 
pected the  end  of  the  world.  The  kindling  of  the  sacred  fire 
on  the  mountain  of  Huixachtla  was  believed  an  omen  of  their 
safety." — Clavigero.  

Note  103,  p.  3G,  col.  1.  —  The  veins  were  full. 

<I>uir)?  K£v  yvioiv  viv  oaov  aOcvos  eWnmcvciv 
A(  J(  01  oidlKavTi  Kar'  avxtva  Travrodep  tves, 
Kai  TToXto)  Trcp  covTf  TO  Se  cdevoi  a^iuv  aSa;. 


Note  104,  p.  36,  col.  1.  —  His  silence  threatened. 
Son  silence  menace.  —  Le  Moyne. 

Note   105,  p.  36,  col.  1.  — seetkefire 

Consume  him. 

Reasons  for  burning  a  trumpeter. 

"  The  letter  she  sent  to  Suffolk  was  received  with  scorn, 
and. the  trumpeter  that  brought  it  commanded  to  be  burnt, 
against  the  law  of  nations,  saith  a  French  *  author,  but  erro- 
neously, for  his  coming  was  not  warranted  by  the  authority  of 
any  lawful  prince,  but  from  a  private  maid,  how  highly  soever 
self-pretended,  who  had  neither  estate  to  keep,  nor  commis- 
sion to  send  a  trumpeter."  —  Fuller's  Profane  State. 

Note  106,  p.  36,  col.  2.  —  In  sight  of  Orleans  and  the  Maiden's 


De  Serres  says,  "  The  trumpeter  was  ready  to  be  burnt  in 
the  sight  of  the  besieged." 

Note  107,  p.  36,  col.  2.  —  As  he  that  puts  it  off. 

Let  not  him  that  girdcth  on  his  harness  boast  himself,  as  he 
that  putteth  it  off.  —  1  Kings,  xx.  11. 

*  De  Serree. 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


Note  lOS,  p.  30,  col.  '2. 4s  lehcii  Chcdcrlis  cuiiics 

".1  riiidfiiimiiiisHiUys  reuimit.i  ad  OuukurUioy  ;  inde.  Chorvii  ; 
post  tit  'I'lic  Kc  Thioi.  Htc  mulla  tUdicimun  a  vwndclii.i  Tiir- 
cicu:,  qttos  Dirvis  vocant,  ijui  co  locu  insigncm  kuhcnt  tcdem,  dc 
hcrue  quodam  Clirderlc  siimiiid  cur/xirii  iitqiic  aiiimi  furliluilinr, 
queiii  cHiidcm  fiiisse  cum  nostra  D.  Geurgio  fabulunlur  ;  cudciii- 
que  illi  ascribuiit  qua:  huic  nostri ;  iiimirum  vasti  ct  hvrrcndi 
dracunis  cicde  servassc  ejpvnituin  virfrinem.  Ad  luce  alia  ad-  multa,  ct  qua:  libitum  est,  comminiscunlur,  ilium  per 
loiiirinquas  oroi  perc^rinari  solitiim,  ad  Jluvium  poslrcmo  pcr- 
venisse,  ci(j«,«  aquin  bibentibiLt  pmsturcut  immortulilatcm.  Qui 
quidcm  ftuciits,  in  qud  parte  lerrarum  sit,  nun  dicunt;  nisi  fur- 
tussis  in  Utopict  cullocari  debet :  tanlum  affirmant  ilium  mairnis 
tenel/ris,  multdque  ciUiffine  ubductum  latere ;  ncque  cuiquam 
mortulium  post  Chederlem,  uti  ilium  wlcret,  coyiti^issc.  Clicder- 
lem  vera  ipsum  mortis  Icifibtis  solutum,  hue  iliac  in  equo  prm- 
stanti^simo,  qui  similiter  cjiuidcm  aqua  luiusta.  mortalUatcm 
exaerit,  dica^ari,  gaudenlem  prwliLi,  adesse  in  belli)  mcliuribus, 
aut  Us  qui  ejus  opem  imploraccrinl,  cujuscunque  tandem  sint 
relii^ionu.^^  —  Busbequius^ 

The  Persians  sny,  that  Alcxan<lcr  coniin?  to  understand, 
that  in  tlic  mountain  of  Kal"  there  was  a  great  cave,  very 
black  and  dark,  wiierein  rin  the  water  of  immortality,  vvoul<l 
needs  take  a  journey  thither.  But  being  afraid  to  lose  his 
way  in  the  cave,  and  considering  with  himself  that  he  had 
comniitti  d  a  great  oversight  in  leaving  the  more  aged  in  cities 
and  fortified  places,  and  keeping  about  his  person  only  young 
people,  such  as  were  not  able  to  advise  him,  he  ordered  to  be 
brought  to  him  some  old  man,  whose  counsel  he  might  follow 
in  the  adventure  ho  was  then  upon.  There  were  in  the  whole 
army  hut  two  brothers,  named  Cliidder  and  Elias,  who  had 
brought  their  father  along  wilh  them,  and  this  good  old  man 
bade  his  sons  go  and  tell  Alexander,  that  to  go  through  with 
the  design  he  had  undertaken,  his  only  way  were  to  take  a 
mare  that  had  a  colt  at  her  heels,  and  to  ride  upon  het  into 
the  cave,  and  leave  the  colt  at  the  entrance  of  il,  and  the 
mare  would  infallibly  bring  him  back  again  to  the  same  place 
without  any  trouble.  Alexander  thought  the  advice  so  good, 
that  he  would  not  take  any  other  person  with  him  in  that 
journey  but  those  two  brothers,  leaving  the  rest  of  his  retinue 
at  the  entrance  of  the  cave.  He  advanced  so  far  that  he 
came  to  a  gite,  so  well  polished,  that  notwithstanding  the 
great  darkness,  it  gave  light  enough  to  let  him  see  there  was 
a  bird  fastened  thereto.  The  bird  asked  Alexander  what  he 
would  have.'  lie  made  answer  that  he  looked  for  the  water 
of  immortality.  The  bird  asked  him,  what  was  done  in  the 
world.'  Mischief  enough,  replies  -Alexander,  since  there  is 
no  vice  or  sin  but  reigns  there.  Whereupon  the  bird  getting 
loose  and  living  away,  the  gale  opened  and  Alexander  saw  an 
Angel  sitting,  wilh  a  trumpet  in  his  hand,  holding  it  as  if  he 
were  going  to  put  it  to  his  mouth.  Alexander  asked  him  his 
name.  The  .\ngel  made  answer  his  n:trne  w;is  Raphael,  and 
that  ho  only  staid  for  a  command  from  fiod  to  blow  the  trum- 
pet and  to  call  the  dead  to  judgment.  Which  hiving  said, 
he  asks  .\lexander  who  he  was.'  [  am  .Vlexander,  replied  he, 
and  I  seek  the  water  of  immorlality.  'J'he  .Angel  gave  him 
a  stone,  and  said  to  him,  go  liiy  wayes,  and  look  for  another 
stone  of  the  same  weight  with  this,  and  then  thou  shalt  find 
immortality.  Whereupon  .Alexander  asked  how  long  he  had 
to  live.  The  angel  said  to  him,  till  such  time  as  the  heaven 
and  the  earth  which  encompass  thee  be  turneil  to  iron.  Alex- 
ander, being  come  out  of  the  cave,  sought  a  long  time,  and  not 
meeting  with  any  stone  just  of  the  same  weight  wilh  the 
other,  he  put  one  into  the  balance  which  he  thought  came 
very  near  it,  and  finding  but  very  liule  difference,  he  added 
thereto  a  little  earth,  which  made  the  scales  even  ;  it  being 
God's  intention  to  shew  Alexander  thereby,  that  he  was  not 
to  ex[)ect  immortality  till  he  himself  were  put  into  the  earth. 
At  last  Alexander  having  one  d.iy  a  fall  oft'  his  horse  in  the 
barren  ground  of  Ghur,  they  laid  him  upon  the  coat  ho  wore 
over  his  armour,  and  covered  him  w  ith  his  buckler  to  keep  off 
the  heat  of  the  sim.  Then  he  began  to  comprehend  the 
prophecy  of  the  Angel,  and  was  satisfied  the  hour  of  his 
death  was  at  hind  ;  accordingly  he  died. 

They  add  to  Ibis  fable,  that  the  two  brothers  Chidder  and 
Elias  drunk  of  the  water  of  immortality,  and  that  they  are 
still  living  but  invisible,  Elias  upon  the  earth,  and  Chidder  in 
'.he  water ;  wherein  the  latter  hath  go  great  power,  that  those 

who  arc  in  danger  of  being  destroyed  by  water,  if  they  ear- 
nestly pray,  vowing  an  olferijig  to  him,  and  firnjiy  believing 
that  ho  can  relieve  them,  shall  escape  the  danger. 

Aiiibassiidvr's  Travels. 
Ktiidir  and  Elias  occupy  a  distinguished  |dacc  in  the  legion 
of  jirophits.  The  name  of  the  first  signifies  verdant,  alluding 
to  the  power  which  he  possessed  of  producing,  wherever  lie 
trod,  the  most  beautiful  and  enchinling  vcnlure.  'J'hcse  two 
are  regarded  as  the  protectors  and  tutelary  gods  of  travel- 
lers ;  the  former  u])un  the  sea,  the  latter  upon  the  land  ;  and 
they  are  thought  to  be  incessantly  employed  in  promoting 
these  s.ilulary  objects.  In  their  rapid  and  uniform  courses, 
they  are  believed  to  meet  once  a  year  at^/(»n,  in  the  environs 
of  Mecca,  the  day  on  which  the  pilgrims  are  assembled. 

£>'  OIissuh's  Jlisturtj  of  die  Otiwmun  Empire. 

Note  109,  p.  37,  col.  1.  —  The  stoords  that  lute  Jiash'd  to  the 
evening  sun. 

Now  does  the  day  grow  blacker  than  before, 
The  swords  that  glistered  late,  in  purjile  gore 
Now  ail  distain'd,  their  former  brightnessc  lose. 

May's  Edward  III. 
And  again.  Book  7. 

The  glittering  swords  that  shone  so  bright  of  late 
Are  quickly  all  distain'd  with  purjde  gore. 

NoTK  110,  J).  37,  col.  2. —  Of  blessed  Mary  vowed  a  vow  of 

II  advint  a  luy  rl  a  toute  sa  gent,  estant  devant  Chartres,  qui 
moult  liumilia  el  brise  son  courage ;  car  enlendis  que  ces  truictcurs 
Erangois  alloient  et  presckoient  ledit  roy  et  son  conseil,  et  encores 
niillc  response  agrcable  nen  avoient  cue.  Une  orage  une  tcmpeste 
ct  une  fcnlilre  si  grande  et  si  horrible  descendit  du  del  en  lost  du 
roy  Danglitirre  qud  sembloit  propremeni  que  le  siecle  deust  finer. 
Car  il  rheoit  si  grosses  pierres  que  ellcs  tuoyeut  hoinmcs  et 
chevaulx,  et  en  furenl  les  plus  hardis  tons  esbahis.  Adoncques 
rrgarda  le  roy  Dangletcrre  leglise  de  jVostre  Dame  dc 
Chartres,  et  se  votia  et  rendit  devotement  a  JVostre  Dame,  et 
promist,  et  confessa  sicomme  il  dist  depuis  qiteil  se  accordcroit  a 
la  paix.  —  Froissnrt. 

But  while  he  lodged  there  (before  Chartres),  his  army  mak- 
ing a  horrible  spoilo  of  the  whole  country,  there  chanced  ai\ 
occasion,  as  the  work  of  Heaven,  which  suddenly  quailed  his 
ambitious  design  to  ruin  France  :  for  behold  a  horrible  and 
extraordinary  tempest  of  haile,  thunder,  and  lightning,  fell 
with  such  violence  as  many  horses  and  men  in  the  army 
perished,  as  if  that  God  hud  stretched  forth  his  hand  from 
heaven  to  stay  his  course.  —  De  Sei-res. 

Note    111,  p.  38,  col.  1.  —  Deep  through  the  sky  the  hollow 
tliunders  roll'd. 

The  circumstance  of  the  Maid's  entering  Orleans  nt  miil- 
night  in  a  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  is  liistorically  true. 

"The  Englishmen  perceiving  that  thei  within  could  not 
long  continue  for  faute  of  vitaile  and  pouder,  kepte  not  theii 
watche  so  diligently  as  thei  wer  accustomed,  nor  scoured  not 
the  countrey  environed  as  thei  before  had  ordained.  Whiche 
negligence  the  citezens  shut  in  perceiving,  sent  worde  thereof 
to  the  French  capitaines,  which  with  Pucelle  in  the  dedde 
tyme  of  the  nighte,  and  in  a  greate  rayne  and  Ihunilre,  with  all 
their  vitaile  and  artilery  entered  into  the  citie." 

Hall,fr.  127. 

Phakespear  also  notices  this  storm.  Striking  as  the  circum- 
stance is,  Chapclain  has  omitted  it. 

Note  112,  p.  38,  col.  1.  —  Strong  were  the  English  forts 

The  patience  and  perseverance  of  a  besieging  army  in  those 
ages  appear  almost  incredible  to  us  now.  The  camp  ofFer 
dinand  bid'ore  Granada  swelled  into  a  city.  Edward  III 
made  a  market  town  before  Calais.  Upon  the  captain's 
refusal  to  surrender,  says  Barnes,  "  he  began  to  entrench 
himself  strongly  about  the  city,  setting  his  own  tent  directly 
against  Ihe  ehii^f  gates  at  which  he  intended  to  enter  ;  then  he 
placed  bastions  between  the  town  and  the  river,  and  set  out 
regular   streets,   and   reared   up   decent   buildings  of  strong 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

timber  between  tin)  trencbes,  wbicb  he  covered  with  thatch, 
ree<l,  broom  und  skins.  Thus  he  encompassed  the  whole 
town  of  Calais,  from  Uisban  on  the  northwest  side  to  Cour- 
giiino  on  the  northeast,  nil  along  by  Pangate,  at  Port  and 
Fort  do  Nicoluy,  commonly  by  the  English  called  Ncwland- 
bridge,  down  by  Ilammes,  Cologne  and  Marke  ;  so  that  his 
camp  looked  like  a  spacious  city,  and  was  usually  by  stran- 
gers, that  came  thither  to  market,  called  New  Calais.  For 
this  prince's  reputation  for  justice  was  so  great,  that  to  his 
markets  (which  he  held  in  his  camp  twice  every  week,  viz. 
on  Tuesdays  and  Saturdays  for  flesh,  fish,  bread,  wine  and 
ale,  with  cloth  and  all  other  necessaries,)  there  came  not  only 
his  friends  and  allies  from  England,  Flanders  and  Aquitain, 
but  even  many  of  king  Philip's  subjects  and  confederates 
conveyed  thither  their  cattle  and  other  commodities  to  be 

Note  113,  p.  38,  col.  2.  —  Entering  wilJi  his  eye. 

Jfanc  lentus,  celsis  adstans  in  colUbus,  intrat 
Urban  oculis,  discitque  locos  cauxsasque  locorum. 

Sitius  Italicus,  xii.  5G7. 

Note  114,  p.  38,  col.  9.  —  Defiled  and  unrepair'd. 

Jlhjccere  madcntes, 
Sicut  erant,  dypeos  ;  nee  qui-squam  spicula  iersit, 
JVec  laudavU  equum,  nitidis  nee  cassidis  altam 
Coinpsit  adornauitque  jubaw.  Statins. 

Note  115,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  Parthenopmus. 

Ipsam,  Mirnal-d  purrum  cum  vidit  in  mnbrd., 
Dianam,  tcnero  si<piantem- gramina  passu, 
Ignovissc  ferunl  coiiiiti,  Dicticaque  tela 
Ipsain,  et  Jlmycltcas  humcris  uptasse  pharetras. 

ttedct  nemoruniy  titulumque  nocentcin. 

Sanguinis  kumani  pudor  est  nescire  sagittas. 

Statins,  IV.  -256. 

Note  116,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  Oladdisilale. 

Gladdisdale  must  be  the  sir  William  Glansdale  of  Shakes- 
pear.     Stovve  calls  him  William  Gladesdale. 

It  is  proper  to  remark  that  I  have  introduced  no  fictitious 
names  among  the  killed.  They  may  all  be  found  in  the 
various  histories.  

Note  117,  p. 39,  col.  2.— The  bulista. 

J^cque  enim  solis  eicussu  lacertis 
Lancea,  sed  tenso  balista  turbine  rapta, 
Haud  unum  contenta  latus  transire,  quiescit ; 
Srd  pandens  pcrqtte  arma  viam,  pcrque  ossa,  rclicla 
Mvrte  fugit :  supcrest  tclo  post  vulncra  cnrsus. 

Lucan.  III. 
Vegetius  says,  that  the  balista  discharged  darts  with  sucli 
rapidity  and  violence,  that  nothing  could  resist  thoir  force. 
This  engine  was  used  particularly  to  discharge  darts  of  a  sur- 
prising length  and  weight,  and  often  many  small  ones  together. 
Its  form  was  not  unlike  that  of  a  broken  bow  ;  it  had  two 
arms,  but  straight  and  not  curved  like  those  of  a  cross-how,  of 
which  the  whole  acting  force  consists  in  bending  the  bow. 
That  of  the  balista  as  well  as  of  the  catapulta,  lies  in  its 
cords.  —  Rollin.  

Note  118,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  Where  by  the  bayle's  embattled  wall. 

The  bayle  or  lists  was  a  space  on  the  outside  of  the  ditch 
surrounded  by  strong  palisades,  and  sometimes  by  a  low  em- 
battled wall.  In  the  attack  of  fortresses,  as  the  range  of  the 
machines  then  in  use  did  not  exceed  the  distance  of  four  stadia, 
the  besiegers  did  not  carry  on  their  approaches  by  means  of 
trenches,  but  begun  their  operations  abovi!  ground,  with  the 
attack  of  the  bayle  or  lists,  where  many  feats  of  chivalry  were 
performed  by  the  knights  and  men  at  arms,  who  considered 
the  assault  of  that  work  as  particularly  belonging  to  them,  Ihe 
weight  of  their  armor  preventing  them  from  scaling  the  walls. 
As  this  part  was  attacked  by  the  knights  and  men  at  arms,  it 
was  also  defended  by  those  of  the  same  rank  in  the  place, 
whence  many  single  combats  were  f«ught  here.  This  was 
at  the  first  investing  of  the  place.  —  Orose. 

Note  119,  p.  39,  col.  2.  — A  rude  cnat  of  mail, 

Unhosed,  unhooded,  as  of  lowly  line 

In  France,  only  persons  of  a  certain  estate,  called  unfirfdt 
lumber,  were  permitted  to  wear  a  hauberk,  which  was  the  ar- 
mor of  a  knight.  Esquires  might  only  wear  a  simple  coat 
of  mail,  without  the  hood  and  hose.  Had  this  aristocratic  dis- 
tinction consisted  in  the  ornamental  part  of  the  arms  alone, 
it  would  not  have  been  objectionable.  In  the  enlightened 
and  free  states  of  Greece,  every  soldier  was  well  provided  with 
defensive  arms.  In  Rome,  a  civic  wreath  was  the  reward  of 
him  who  should  save  the  life  of  a  citizen.  But  to  use  the 
words  of  Dr.  Gillies,  "the  miserable  peasants  of  modern 
Europe  are  exposed  without  defence  as  without  remorse,  by 
the  ambition  of  men,  whom  the  Greeks  would  have  styled 

Note  120,  p.  39,  col.  3.  —  The  rude-featured  helm. 

The  burgonet,  which  represented  the  shape  of  the  head  and 

Note  121,  p.  39,  col.  2. —  On  his  crown-created  helm. 

Earls  and  dukes  frequently  wore  their  coronets  on  the 
crests  of  their  helmets.  At  the  battle  of  Agineourt  Henry 
wore  "a  bright  helmet,  whereupon  was  seta  crowne  of  gold, 
repleate  with  pearle  and  precious  stones,  marvellous  rich."  — ■ 

Note  122,  p.  39,  col.  2.  —  .ind  against  the  iron  fence  beneath. 
A  breastplate  was  sometimes  worn  under  the  hauberk. 

Note  123,  p.  40,  col.  1.  —  ....  Conradc,  with  an  active  bound, 
Sprung  on  tlie  battlements. 

The  nature  of  this  barri(;rhas  been  explained  in  a  previous 
note.  The  possibility  of  leaping  upon  it  is  exemplified  in  the 
following  adventure,  which  is  characteristic  of  the  period  in 
which  it  happened,  (1370.) 

"  At  that  time  there  was  done  an  extraordinary  feat  of  arms 
by  a  Scotch  knight,  named  sir  John  Assueton,  being  one  of 
those  men  of  arms  of  Scotland,  who  had  now  entered  king 
Edward's  pay.  This  man  left  his  rank  with  his  spear  in  his 
hand,  his  page  riding  behind  him,  and  went  towards  the  bar- 
riers of  Noyon,  where  he  alighted,  saying,  '  Here  hold  my 
horse,  and  stir  not  from  hence  ;'  and  so  he  came  to  the  bar- 
riers. There  were  there  at  that  time  sir  John  de  Eoye,  and 
sir  Lancelot  de  Lorris,  with  ten  or  twelve  more,  who  all  won- 
dered what  this  knight  designed  to  do.  He  for  his  part  being 
close  at  the  harriers  said  unto  them,  'Gentlemen,  I  am  come 
hither  to  visit  you,  and  because  I  see  you  will  not  come  forth 
of  your  barriers  to  me,  I  will  come  in  to  you,  if  I  may,  and 
prove  my  knighthood  against  you.  Win  me  if  you  can.' 
And  with  that  ho  leaped  over  the  bars,  and  began  to  lay 
about  him  like  a  lion,  he  at  thcni  and  they  at  him  ;  so  that  he 
alone  fought  thus  against  them  all  for  near  the  space  of  an 
hour,  and  hurt  several  of  them.  And  all  the  while  those  of 
the  town  belield  with  much  delight  from  the  walls  and  their 
garret  windows  his  grca:  activity,  strength  and  courage  ;  but 
they  oft'ered  not  to  do  him  any  hurt,  as  they  might  very  easily 
have  done,  if  they  had  been  minded  to  cast  stones  or  darts  at 
him  ;  but  the  French  knights  charged  thoni  to  the  contrary, 
saying  '  how  they  should  let  them  alone  to  deal  with  him.' 
When  matters  had  continued  thus  about  an  hour,  the  Scotch 
page  came  to  the  harriers  with  his  master's  horse  in  his 
hand,  and  said  in  his  language,  '  Sir,  pray  come  away,  it  is 
high  time  for  you  to  leave  ofi'  now  ;  for  the  army  is  marched 
oft"  out  of  sight.'  The  knight  heard  his  man,  and  then  gave 
two  or  three  terrible  strokes  about  him  to  clear  the  way,  and 
so,  armed  as  he  was,  he  leaped  back  again  over  the  barriers 
and  mounted  his  horse,  having  not  received  any  hurt ;  and 
turning  to  the  Frenchmen,  said,  '  Adieu,  sirs  I  I  thank  you 
for  my  diversion.'  And  with  that  he  rode  after  his  man 
upon  the  spur  towards  the  army."  —  Joshua  Barnes,  p.  801. 

Note  124,  p.  40,  col.  1.  —  The  iron  weight  swung  high. 

Le  massue  est  vn  hciton  gros  comme  le  bras,  ayant  d  Z'un  rZe 
sf,5  bouts  7ine  forte  courruie  pour  tenir  I'anne  ct  I'rmpScher  de 
glisser,  et  d  I'autre  trois  chatnons  defer,  aurqttcls  pcnd  un  boulet 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC, 


pe.ianl  huU  livra.     II  n^ij  a  pof  d'hommc  aujourd'hiii  capnbU 
df  vmnitr  ane  telle  arme.  —  Lr  Grand. 

Tlio  arms  of  tlie  Medici  family  "  are  romnntirally  roforred 
to  Avi'r;ir;lo  do  Modici,  a  comiiiundcr  under  Cliarlcmagnc, 
who  for  liis  valor  in  destroying  llie  gigantic  plunderer  Mu- 
gello,  by  whom  the  surrounding  country  was  laid  waste,  was 
honored  with  the  privilege  of  bearing  for  his  arms  six  paVe 
or  balls,  as  characteristic  of  tho  iron  balls  that  hung  from 
the  mace  of  his  fierce  antagonist,  the  impression  of  which 
remained  on  his  shield."  —  Roscoc. 

Scudery  enumerates  the  mace  among  the  instruments  of 
war,  in  a  passage  whose  concluding  line  may  vie  with  any 
bathos  of  sir  Richaid  Blackmore. 

La  conftuieinentfrappcnt  de  loales  parts 
Picrres,  pii/ucs,  espieui,  masses,  fie clieji  et  dards, 
Lances  etjavclots,  sabres  ct  marleaux  d^armes, 
Dangereuses  instruments  des  gucrriercs  alarmes. — .Slaric. 

Note  125,  p.  40,  col.  2.  —  There  icasaportal  in  Vie  English  fort, 
Which  open'd  on  Vie  wall. 

Vitruvius  observes,  in  treating  upon  fortified  walls,  that 
near  the  towers  the  walls  should  be  cut  within-side  the 
breadth  of  tho  tower,  and  that  the  ways  broke  in  this  manner 
should  only  bo  joined  and  continued  by  beams  laid  upon  tlie 
two  cxlremilics,  without  being  made  fast  with  iron  ;  that  in 
case  the  enemy  slioiiM  make  himself  master  of  any  part  of 
the  wall,  tlie  besieged  might  remove  this  wooden  l)ridge,  and 
thereby  prevent  his  passage  to  the  other  parts  of  the  wall 
and  into  the  towers.  —  Rollin. 

The  precaution  recommended  by  Vitruvius  liad  not  been 
observed  in  the  construction  of  the  Englisli  walls.  On  each 
side  of  every  tower,  a  small  door  opened  upon  the  wall ;  and 
the  garrison  of  one  tower  are  represented  in  the  poem  as  fly- 
ing by  this  way  from  cue  to  shelter  themselves  in  the  other. 
With  the  enterprising  spirit  and  the  defensive  arms  of  chival- 
ry, tile  subsequent  events  will  not  be  found  to  exceed 

Note  126,  p.  40,  col.  2.  — JiTot  overbrow'd  by  jutting  parapet. 

The  machicolation  :  a  projection  over  the  gate-way  of  a 
town  or  castle,  contrived  fur  letting  fall  great  weights,  scald- 
ing water,  tc.  on  the  heads  of  any  assailants  who  might  have 
got  close  to  the  gate.  "  MachecolLre,  or  macheeoulare," 
says  Coke,  "  is  to  make  a  warlike  device  over  a  gate  or  otlicr 
passage  like  to  a  grate,  through  which  scalding  water,  or  pon- 
derous or  offensive  things  may  be  cast  upon  the  assaylants." 

Note  127,  p.  41,  col.  1.  —  Plucking  from  t}ie  shield  the  severed 
}h  threw  it  back. 
I  have  met  with  one  instance  in  Englisli  history,  and  only 
one,  of  throwing  the  spear  after  the  manner  of  the  ancients. 
It  is  in  Stowc's  chronicle.  "  1 143.  Tho  30th  of  January,  a 
challenge  was  done  in  Smithfield  within  lists,  before  tlie  king  ; 
the  one  sir  Philip  de  Beawse  of  Arra^on,  a  kn!:;Iit,  and  the 
other  an  esquire  of  the  king's  house  called  Jolin  Ausley  or 
Astley.  These  comming  to  the  fieldo,  tooke  their  tents,  and 
there  was  the  knight's  sonno  made  knight  by  the  king,  and  so 
brought  again  to  his  father's  tent.  Then  the  heralds  of 
armes  called  them  by  name  to  doe  their  battel,  and  so  they 
came  both  all  armed,  with  their  weapons  ;  tho  knight  came 
with  his  sword  drawn,  and  the  es(|uire  with  his  speare.  The 
esquire  cast  his  speare  against  the  knight,  but  tho  knight 
■ivoiding  it  with  his  sword,  cast  it  to  the  ground.  Then  tlie 
esquire  took  his  axe  and  went  agr.inst  the  knight  suddenly, 
on  whom  he  stroke  many  strokes,  hard  and  sore  upon  bis 
baaenel,  and  on  his  hind,  and  made  him  loose  and  lot  full  his 
axe  to  the  ground,  and  up  liis  limbes  three  times,  and 
caught  his  dagger  and  would  have  smitten  him  in  the  face, 
for  to  have  slaine  him  in  the  field  ;  and  then  the  king  cried 
hoo,  and  so  they  were  departed  and  went  to  their  tents,  and 
the  king  dubbed  John  Astley  knight  for  his  valiant  torney, 
and  the  knight  of  Arragon  offered  his  armes  at  Windsor." 

Note  128,  p.  41,  col.  1  —  Full  oi  the  corselet  of  a  meaner  man. 
The  corselet  was  chi rfly  won   by  pikemcn. 

Note  129,  p.  42,  col.  1.  —  Ji  harlot  I  —  an  adulteress ! 

This  woman,  who  is  always  respectably  named  in  French 
history,  had  her  punishment  both  in  herself  and  in  her  child. 

"This  fair  Agnes  had  been  five  years  in  the  service  of  the 
queen,  during  w  hich  she  had  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures  of  life, 
in  wearing  rich  clothes,  furred  robes,  golden  chains,  and  pre- 
cious stones ;  and  it  was  commonly  reported  that  the  king 
often  visited  her,  and  maintained  her  in  a  state  of  concu- 
binage, for  tlie  people  arc  more  inclined  to  speak  ill  than  well 
of  their  superiors. 

"  The  afi'ection  the  king  showed  her  was  as  much  for  her 
gaiety  of  temper,  pleasing  manners,  and  agreeable  conversa- 
tion, as  tor  her  beauty.  .She  was  bo  beautiful  that  she  was 
called  the  Fairest  of  the  Fair,  and  the  Lady  of  Beauty,  as 
well  on  account  of  her  personal  charms,  as  becausit  the  king 
had  given  her  for  life  the  castle  of  l!eaut6  near  Paris.  Slie 
was  very  charitable,  and  most  liberal  in  her  alms,  wiiich  she 
distributed  among  such  churches  as  were  out  of  repair,  and 
to  beggars.  It  is  true  that  Agnes  had  a  daugliter  who  lived 
but  a  short  time,  which  she  said  was  tho  king's,  and  gave  it 
to  him  as  the  proper  father ;  but  the  king  always  excused 
himself  as  not  having  any  claim  to  it.  She  may  indeed  have 
called  in  help,  for  the  matter  was  variously  talked  of. 

"  At  length  she  was  seized  with  a  bowel  complaint,  and 
was  a  long  time  ill,  during  which  she  was  very  contrite,  and 
sincerely  repented  of  her  sins.  Slie  often  remembered  Mary 
Magdalene,  who  had  been  a  great  sinner,  and  devoutly  in- 
voked God  and  the  virgin  Mary  to  her  aid  like  a  true  catliolie  : 
after  she  had  received  the  sacraments,  she  called  for  her  book 
of  prayers,  in  which  she  had  written  with  her  own  hand  the 
verses  of  ^t.  Bernard  to  repeat  them.  Slie  then  made  many 
gifts  (which  were  put  down  in  writing,  that  her  executors 
might  fulfil  them,  with  the  other  articles  of  her  will),  which 
including  alms  and  the  payment  of  her  servants  might  amount 
to  nearly  sixty  thousand  crowns. 

"  Her  executors  were  Jacques  Ccrur,  councellor  and  master 
of  the  wardrobe  to  the  king,  master  Robert  Poictevin  phy- 
sician, and  master  Stephen  Chevalier  treasurer  to  the  king, 
who  was  to  take  the  lead  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  will  should 
it  be  liis  gracious  pleasure. 

"  The  fair  Agnes,  perceiving  that  she  was  daily  growing 
weaker,  said  to  the  lord  de  la  Trimouillc,  the  lady  of  the 
seneschal  of  Poitou,  and  one  of  tiio  king's  equerries  called 
Oouffier,  in  the  presence  of  all  her  damsels,  that  our  fragile 
life  was  but  a  stinking  ordure. 

"  She  then  required  that  her  confessor  would  give  her  abso- 
lution from  all  her  sins  and  wickedness,  confurniable  to  an 
absolution,  which  was,  as  she  said,  at  Loehes,  which  the  con- 
fessor on  her  assurance  complied  with.  After  this  she  uttered 
a  loud  shriek,  and  called  on  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  support 
of  the  blessed  virgin  Mary,  and  gave  up  the  ghost  on  Monday 
the  9th  day  of  February,  in  the  year  1449,  about  six  o'clock 
in  tho  aflernoon.  Her  body  was  opened,  and  her  heart  in- 
terred in  tlie  church  of  the  said  abbey,  to  which  she  had  been 
a  most  liberal  benefactress  ;  and  her  body  was  conveyed  with 
many  honors  to  Loehes,  where  it  was  interred  in  tho  col- 
legiate church  of  our  Lady,  to  which  also  she  had  made  many 
handsome  donations  and  several  foundations.  May  God 
have  mercy  on  her  soul,  and  admit  it  into  Paradise." 

Monstj-eJet,  vol.  ix.  p.  97 

On  the  13th  day  of  June,  the  seneschal  of  Normandy,  count 
of  Maulevrier,  and  son  to  the  late  sir  Pierre  de  Breze,  killed 
at  the  battle  of  Montlebery,  went  to  the  village  of  Roinicrs, 
near  Dourdan,  which  belonged  to  him,  for  the  sake  of  hunt- 
ing. He  took  with  him  his  1  idy,  the  princess  Charlotte  of 
France,  natural  daughter  of  the  lite  king  Charles  the  VII. 
by  Agnes  Sorel.  After  the  chace,  when  they  were  returned 
to  Romiers  to  sup  and  lodge,  the  seneschal  retired  to  a  single- 
bedded  room  for  the  night  ;  his  lady  retired  also  to  another 
chamber,  when  moved  by  bet  disorderly  passions  (as  the  hus 
hand  said)  she  called  to  her  a  gentleman  from  Poitou,  named 
Pierre  de  la  Vegne,  who  was  head  huntsman  to  the  seneschal, 
and  made  him  lie  with  her.  This  was  told  to  the  seneschal 
by  the  master  of  his  household,  called  Pierre  I'Apothicaire  ; 
when  he  instantly  aro-e,  and  taking  his  sword,  broke  open  tho 
door  of  the  chamber  where  his  lady  and  the  huntsman  were 
in  bed.  The  huntsman  started  up  in  his  shirt,  and  the  senes- 
chal gave  him  first  a  severe  blow  with  his  sword  on  the  head. 


WOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

and  tliun  thrust  it  through  his  hody,  and  liillud  him  on  the 
spot.  This  dono,  he  went  into  an  adjoining  room  where  liis 
children  lay,  and  finding  liis  wife  hid  under  the  coverlid  of 
their  bed,  dragged  her  thence  by  the  arm  along  the  ground, 
and  struck  her  between  the  shoulders  with  his  sword.  On 
her  raising  herself  on  her  knees  lie  ran  his  sword  through  her 
breast,  and  she  fell  down  dead.  He  sent  her  hody  for  inter- 
ment to  the  abbey  of  Coulens,  where  her  obsequies  were 
performed,  and  he  caused  the  huntsman  to  he  buried  in  the 
garden  of  the  house  wherein  he  had  been  killed.  —  Monstrclct, 
vol.  ii.  p.  233. 

Note  130,  p.  42,  col.  1.  — and  would  tliat  I liad  lived 

III  those  old  times. 

MriKtT^  tiTCiT   a)0£(Xoi/  cyo)  ircixnTOiai  /itTCivai 
Avipaaiv,  aXX'  >7  rrpuadc  Qavnv  ri  eireiTa  yevcaOat. 
Nvv  yap  ifi  yci'Oi  tori  ati^ripcon'  <jj6ctot  ripap 
HavaovTui  KU^aTQ}  Kat  oi^U"5,  uy^e  n  vVKTcop, 
•Pdcipoiicvoi.  Hesiod 

Note    131,  p.  42,  col.  2. —  Then  was   that  nvble    heart  of 
Douglas  pierced. 

The  heart  of  Bruce  was,  by  his  own  dying  will,  intrusted 
to  Douglas  to  bear  it  to  Jerusalem.  This  is  one  of  the  finest 
stories  in  the  whole  age  of  chivalrous  history.  Douglas 
inshrined  the  heart  in  a  golden  case,  and  wore  it  round  his 
neck  ;  he  landed  in  tfpain  on  his  way,  and  slopped  to  assist  the 
Castillians  against  the  Moors,  —  i)robably  during  the  siege  of 
Algeziras.  There,  in  the  heat  of  notion,  he  took  the  heart  from 
his  neck,  and  cast  it  into  the  thick  of  the  enemy,  exclaiming, 
as  Barbour  has  it, 

"  Now  pass  thou  forth  before 
As  thou  wast  wont  in  fight  to  he, 
And  I  shall  follow  or  else  die." 
In  this  action  he  perished^  and  from  that   time  the  bloody 
heart  has  been  borne  by  the  family. 

Note  132,  p.  44,  col.  1.  — the  shield 

Pillowed  Vie  helmed  head. 

11  n^est  r''n  de  si  dour,  pour  des  ceeurs  pleins  de  gloire, 
Que  la  pautilt  t~uit  nui  suit  une  victoire, 
Durmir  sur  un  tropneo,  wt  m  '•harmant  repos, 
Et  le  champ  de  battaile  est  le  lici  i^\ii  'lerns. 

Scuu.Ci"y.     Alaric. 
The  night  after  a  battle  is  certainly  more  agreeable  tiian  the 
night  before  one.     A  soldier  may  use  his  shield  for  a  pillow, 
but  he  must  be  very  ingenious  to  sleep  upon  a  trophy. 

Note  133,  p.  44,  col.  1.  —  Oazing  with  such  a  look  as  though 
The  thing  she  sought. 

With  a  dumb  silence  seeming  that  it  fears 
The  thing  it  went  about  to  effectuate. 


Note  134,  p.  44,  col.  2.  — One  loose  lock 

Play'd  o'er  his  check's  black  paleness. 

"  JVoire  pasleur." 

Le  Moyne.     St,  Louis.  Liv.  xvi. 

Note  135,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  The  barbican. 

Next  the  bayle  was  the  ditch,  fosa,  graff,  or  mote  :  generally 
where  it  couM  bs  a  wot  one,  and  pretty  deej).  The  passage 
over  it  by  a  draw-bri.lge,  covered  by  an  advance  work 
called  a  barbican.  The  barbican  was  sometimes  beyond  the 
dit'h  that  covered  the  draw-bridge,  and  in  towns  and  large 
fortresses  had  frequently  a  ditch  and  dr  iw-bridge  of  its  own. 

Note  133,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  TTie  embattled  wall. 
The  outermost  walls  enclosing  towns  or  fortresses  were 
commonly  perpendicular,  or  had  a  very  small  external  talus. 
They  were  H  inked  by  semi-circular,  polygonal,  or  sq\iare 
towers,  commonly  about  forty  or  fifty  yards  distant  from  each 
other.     Within  were  steps  to  mount  the  terrc-pleine  of  the 

walls  or  rampart,  which  wi  re  always  defended  by  an  embat- 
tled or  crenellated  parapet. —  Grose. 

The  fortifications  of  the  middle  ages  difl'ered  in  this  respect 
from  those  of  the  ancients.  When  the  besiegers  had  gained 
the  summit  of  the  wall,  the  descent  on  the  other  side  was  safe 
and  easy.  But  "  the  ancients  did  not  generally  support  their 
walls  on  the  inside  with  earth  in  the  manner  of  the  talus  or 
slope,  which  made  the  attacks  more  dangerous.  For  though 
the  enemy  had  gained  some  footing  upon  them,  he  could  not 
assure  himself  of  taking  the  city.  It  was  necessary  to  get 
down,  and  to  make  use  of  some  of  the  ladders  by  which  he 
had  mounted  ;  and  that  descent  exposed  the  soldier  to  very 
great  danger."  —  Rallin. 

Note  137,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  Behind  the  guardian  pavais  fenced. 

The  p  ivais,  or  pavache,  was  a  large  shield,  or  rather  a  port- 
able mantlet,  capable  of  covering  a  man  from  head  to  foot, 
and  probably  of  sufficient  thickness  to  resist  the  missive 
weapons  then  in  use.  These  were  in  sieges  carried  by  ser- 
vants, whose  business  it  was  to  cover  their  masters  with  them, 
whilst  they,  with  their  bows  and  arrows,  shot  at  the  enemy 
on  the  ramp  irts.  As  this  must  have  been  a  service  of  danger, 
it  was  that  perhaps  which  made  the  office  of  scutifer  honora- 
ble. The  pavais  was  rectangular  at  the  bottom,  but  rounded 
off  above  :  it  was  sometimes  supported  by  props.  —  Orose. 

Note  138,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  fVith  all  Oieir  mangonels. 
Mangonel  is  a  term  comprehending  all  the  smaller  engines. 

Note  139,  p.  45,  col.  1.  —  Tortoises 

The  tortoise  was  a  machine  composed  of  very  strong  and 
solid  timber  work.  The  height  of  it  to  its  highest  beam, 
which  sustained  the  roof,  was  twelve  feet.  The  base  was 
square,  and  each  of  its  fronts  twenty-five  feet.  It  was 
covered  with  a  kind  of  quilted  mattress  made  of  raw  hides, 
and  prepared  with  different  drugs  to  prevent  its  being  set  on 
fire  by  combustibles.  This  heavy  machine  was  supported 
upon  four  wheels,  or  perhaps  upon  eight.  It  was  called  tor- 
toise from  its  serving  as  a  very  strong  covering  and  defence 
against  the  enormous  weights  thrown  down  on  it ;  those  under 
it  being  safe  in  the  same  manner  as  a  tortoise  under  his  shell 
It  was  used  both  to  fill  up  the  fosse,  and  for  sapping.  It  may 
not  be  improper  to  add,  that  it  is  believed,  so  enormous  a 
weight  could  not  be  moved  from  place  to  place  on  wheels,  and 
that  it  was  pushed  forward  on  rollers.  Under  these  wheels 
or  rollers,  the  way  was  laid  with  strong  pi  inks  to  facilitate 
its  motion,  and  prevent  its  sinking  into  the  ground,  from 
whence  it  would  have  been  very  difficult  to  have  removed  it. 
The  ancients  have  observed  that  the  roof  had  a  thicker  cover- 
ing, of  hides,  hurdles,  sea-weed,  &c.  than  the  sides,  as  it  was 
exposed  to  much  greater  shocks  from  the  weights  thrown  upon 
it  by  the  besieged.  It  had  a  door  in  front,  which  was  drawn 
up  by  a  chain  as  far  as  was  necessary,  and  covered  the  soldiers 
at  work  in  filling  up  the  fosse  with  fascines.  —  Roilin. 

This  is  the  tortoise  of  the  ancients,  but  that  of  the  middle 
ages  differed  from  it  in  nothing  material. 

Note  140,  p.  45,  col.  2.  —  .^  dreadful  train. 
'_'  The  besiegers  having  carried  the  bayle,  brought  up  their 
machines  and  established  themselves  in  the  counterscarp, 
began  under  cover  of  their  cats,  sows,  or  tortoises,  to  drain 
the  ditch,  if  a  wet  one,  and  also  to  fill  it  up  with  hurdles  and 
fascines,  and  level  it  for  the  passage  of  their  movable  towers 
Whilst  this  was  doing,  the  archers,  attended  by  young  men 
carrying  shields  (pavoises),  attempted  with  their  arrows  to 
drive  the  besieged  from  the  towers  and  ramparts,  being  them- 
selves covered  by  these  portable  mantlets.  The  garrison  on 
their  part  essayed  by  the  discharge  of  machines,  cross  and  long 
bows,  to  keep  the  enemy  at  a  distance."  —  Orose. 

Note  141,  p.  45,  col.  2.  — He  bore  an  arbaUst  himself, 

.4  weapon  for  its  sure  destructiKemss 
Abominated  once. 

The  crosR-bow  was  for  some  time  laid  aside  in  obedience 
to  a  decree  of  the  second  Lateran  council  held  in  1139.    "  jJr- 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


tem  illam  mortifcram  et  D,'0  odibilem  ballistariorum  adversus 
chrijftianos  et  aitftolicos  cxercrre  dt  cwtero  sub  anutJicmale  pro- 
hibcmajt."  This  weapon  Wiis  again  introduced  into  our  armies 
by  Kicliarcl  I.,  who  boin;;  slain  with  a  (luarrcl  shot  from  one 
of  them,  at  the  siege  of  the  cnstio  of  Chnluz  in  Normandy,  it 
was  considered  as  a  judgment  from  heaven  iiitlicled  upon  him 
for  his  impiety.  Guillaume  le  Breton,  relating  the  death  of 
this  king,  puts  the  following  into  the  mouth  of  Atropos  : 

Ildc  voto,  non  alA  Rlchnrdum  morte  perirc, 
Ut  qui  FrancigenU  ballistiB  primitus  usu/n 
Tradidit^  ipse  stti  rem  primitius  erpenatur, 
Qacmjue  alios  docuit  in  se  vim  seiUial  artis. 


Note   14-3,  p.  45,  col.  2.  —  .   .  .  who  kneeling  by  the  trebuehct. 
Charged  its  long  sling  with  death. 

From  the  trcbuchef  thoy  discharged  many  stones  at  once  by 
a  sling.  It  acted  by  means  of  a  great  weight  fastened  to  the 
short  arm  of  a  lever,  which  being  let  fall,  raised  the  end  of  the 
long  arm  with  a  great  velocity  A  man  is  represented  kneel- 
ing to  load  one  of  these  in  an  ivory  carving,  supposed  to  be  of 
the  age  of  Edward  IF.  —  Orosc. 

Note    143,    p.  45,  col.  2.  —  He  in  Vic  groove  the  feather'd 
quarrel  placed. 

Quarrels,  or  carreaux,  were  so  called  from  their  heads, 
which  were  square  pyramids  of  iron. 

Note  144,  p.  46,  col.  1 — some  tlie  icaten/  fence  .  .  .  . 

Drain  painful. 

The  tortoises,  &c.  and  movable  towers  having  reached  the 
Wills,  the  besiegers  under  them  cither  began  to  mine,  or  batter 
them  with  the  r  im.  They  also  established  batteries  of  balis- 
tas  and  mangonels  on  the  counterscarp.  These  were  opposed 
by  those  of  the  enemy. 

Note  145,  p.  46,  col.  1. —  Or  charging  with  huge,  stnnes  the 
murderous  sling. 

The  matafunda. 

NoT£  146,  p.  46,  col.  1.  — or  in  the  espringal 

Fix  Oie  brass-winged  arrows. 

The  espringal  threw  large  darts  called  muchetlji,  sometimes 
winged  with  brass  instead  of  feathers.  Procopius  says  that 
because  feathers  could  not  be  put  to  the  large  dirts  discharged 
from  the  balista,  the  ancients  used  pieces  of  wood  six  inches 
thick,  which  had  the  same  effect. 

Note    147,  p.  46,  col.  1.  —  .^  ponderous  stone  from  sovie  huge 

Le  lendemain  vindrent  dear  m,aistres  engingneurs  au  due  de 
JVormandie,  qui  dtrenl  que,  si  on  leur  vouloit  tivrer  boys  et  oh- 
vriers,  Hz  ferofnt  quntre  eschauffnuh  et  haulz  que  on  men'roit 
aVLC  murs  du  chasteU  et  seroient  si  hauh  q'lz  surmontrroient  les 
murs.  Le  due  commanda  q'lz  Icfcisscnt,  et  prendre  tous  les 
c'larpmtiers  du  pays,  et  payer  largement.  Si  furent  faiti  ces 
qualre cicluiiiffaulj:  en  ijualre  grosses  nrfi,  mais  on  y  mi<t  longue- 
menl  et  comterent  grans  deniers.  Si  yjist  on  les  gens  entrer 
q'a  ceulz  du  chastel  devoient  comhatlre.  Quant  ill  eurent  passe 
la  mottte  de  la  riviere,  ceulz  du  chastel  desclinquerent  quatre  mar- 
tiiuti  q'lz  avoient  faitz  nouvellement  pour  rcmedier  conlre  Icsdili 
esehauffaulz.  Ces  quatre  martiiietz  gettolent  si  grosser  pierres  et 
si  sourent  sur  scs  e.ichaiiffault  q'lz  furent  bien  tost  froissez  tant 
qui  les  gensdarmes  et  ceulz  que  les  cnndviwievt  ve  se  peurcnt  de- 
da  IS  garantir.  Si  se  relircrent  arrirre  le  plus  tost  quilz  peurent. 
Et  ainfois  q'Izfussent  oultre  la  riviere  lung  des  esehauffaulz  fut 
enfondre  aufoiis  de  leaue.  —  Froissart,  /.  ff.  82. 

Note  148,  p.  46,  col.  1.  —  Ji  moving  tower  the  men  of  Orleans 

The  following  extract  from  the  History  of  Edward  III.  by 
Joshua  Barnes  contains  a  full  account  of  these  moving  towers. 
''  Now  the  earl  of  Darby  had  layn   before   Reulo  more  than 

nine  weeks,  in  which  time  he  had  made  two  vast  belfroys  or 
bastilles  of  massy  timber,  with  three  stages  or  floors  ;  each  of 
the  belfroys  running  on  four  huge  wheels,  bound  Hl)out  with 
thick  hoops  of  iron  ;  and  the  sides  and  other  parts  that  any 
ways  respected  the  town  were  covered  with  raw  hides,  thick 
laid,  to  defend  the  engines  from  lire  and  shot.  In  every  one  of 
these  stages  were  placeil  an  hundred  archers,  and  between  the 
two  bastilles,  there  were  two  hundred  men  with  pickaxes  and 
mattocks.  From  these  six  stages  six  hundred  archers  shot  so 
fiercely  all  altogether,  that  no  man  could  appear  at  his  defence 
without  a  sufficient  punishment :  so  that  the  belfroys  being 
brought  upon  wheels  by  the  strength  of  men  over  a  pan  of  the 
ditch,  which  was  purposely  made  plain  and  level  by  the  faggots 
and  earth  and  stones  cast  upon  them,  the  two  hundred  pioneers 
plyed  their  work  so  well  under  the  protection  of  these  engines, 
that  they  made  a  considerable  breach  through  the  walls  of  the 

Note  149,  p.  46,  col.  1. Irchers,  through  the  opening,  shot 

their  shafU. 

The  archers  and  cross-bowmen  from  the  upper  stories  Ln  the 
movable  towers  essayed  to  drive  away  the  garrison  from  the 
parapets,  and  on  a  proper  opportunity  to  let  fall  u  bridge,  by 
that  means  to  enter  the  town.  In  the  bottom  story  was  often 
a  large  ram.  —  Orose. 

Note  150,  p.  46,  col.  2. — in d  from  Vie  arbalist  the  fire-tipt 
Shot  burning  through  the  skij. 

-Against  the  movable  tower  there  were  many  modes  of 
defence.  The  chief  was  to  break  up  the  ground  over  vvhich  it 
was  to  pass,  or  by  undermining  it  to  overthrow  it.  Attempts 
were  likewise  made  to  set  it  on  fire,  to  prevent  which  it  was 
covered  with  raw  hides,  or  coated  over  with  alum. —  Grose. 

Note   151,  p.  46,  col.  2.  —  Ore    the   ramparts    lowered  from 

The  bridge  reclines. 

These  bridges  are  described  by  Itollin  in  the  account  of  the 
moving  towers  which  lie  gives  from  Vegetius  :  —  "The  moving 
towers  are  made  of  an  assemblage  of  beams  and  strong  planks, 
not  unlike  a  house.  To  secure  them  against  the  fires  thrown 
by  the  besieged,  they  are  covered  with  raw  hides,  or  with 
pieces  of  cloth  made  of  hair.  Their  height  is  in  proportion  to 
their  base.  They  are  sometimes  thirty  feet  square,  and  some- 
times forty  or  fifty.  They  are  higher  thin  the  walls  or  even 
towers  of  the  city.  They  are  supported  upon  several  wheels 
according  lo  mechanic  principles,  by  the  means  of  which  the 
machine  is  easily  made  to  move,  how  great  soever  it  may  be. 
The  town  is  in  great  danger  if  this  tower  can  appro  tch  the 
walls  ;  tor  it  has  stairs  from  one  story  to  another,  and  includes 
different  methods  of  attack.  At  bottom  it  has  a  ram  to  lialter 
the  wall,  and  on  the  middle  story  a  draw-bridge,  made  of  two 
beams  with  rails  of  basket-work,  which  lets  down  easily  upon 
the  wall  of  a  city,  when  within  the  rench  of  it.  The  be-iegeis 
pass  upon  this  bridge,  to  make  themselves  masters  of  llie  W..I1. 
Upon  the  higher  stories  are  soldiers  armed  with  partisans  and 
missive  weapons,  who  keep  a  perpetual  discharge  upci;  the 
works.  When  affairs  are  in  this  posture,  a  place  seldom  held 
out  long.  For  what  can  they  hope  who  have  nothing  to  cim- 
fide  in  but  the  height  of  their  ramjiarts,  when  they  see  others 
suddenly  appear  which  command  them  ?  " 

The  towers  or  belfreys  of  modern  times  rarely  exceeded 
three  or  four  stages  or  stories. 

Note  152,  p.  47,  col.  1.  — the  braxs-wing'd  darts 

HTiirl  as  they  pierce  the  victim. 

These  darts  were  called  viretons,  from  their  whirling  about 
in  the  air.  

Note  153,  p.  47,  col.  1.  —  Curineus. 

"  And  here,  with  leave  bespoken  to  recite  a  grand  fable, 
though  dignified  by  our  best  poot-f,  while  Brutus  on  «  certain 
festival  day,  solemnly  ke|>t  on  thiit  shore  where  ho  first  landed, 
was  with  the  people  in  great  jollity  and  mirth,  a  crew  of  these 
savages  breaking  in  among  them,  began  on  the  sudden  anotlier 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

son  of  gaino  lliaii  at  such  a  meeting  was  expected.  l!ut  at 
length  hy  m.uiy  hands  overcome,  (ioeniagog  the  hngest,  in 
height  tHelve  ciil)its,  is.  reserved  alive,  that  witli  liini  Coriiieus 
who  desired  nolliing  more,  might  try  his  strength ;  whom  in 
a  wrestle  the  giant  catching  aloft,  with  a  terrible  hugg  hroke 
three  of  his  lihs :  nevertheless  Corineus  enraged  heaving  him 
up  hy  m.iiii  force,  and  on  his  shoulders  bearing  him  to  the  next 
high  rock,  threiB  him  headlong  all  shatUred  into  Hit  nea,  and  left 
his  name  on  the  cli/F,  called  ever  since  Langoemagog,  which 
is  ID  say,  the  giant's  leaj)."  —  Milton's  Hist,  of  England. 

The  exjiression  brute  vastness  is  taken  from  the  same  work 
of  Milton,  where  he  relates  the  death  of  Morindus.  "Well 
fitted  to  such  a  heastial  cruelty  was  his  end  ;  for  hearing  of  a 
huge  monster  that  from  the  Irish  sea  infested  the  coast,  and  in 
the  pride  of  his  strength  foolishly  attempting  to  set  manly 
valor  against  a  brute  vastness,  when  his  weapons  were  all 
in  vain,  by  tliut  horrible  mouth  he  was  catched  up  and  de- 

Note  154,  p.  47,  col.  9.  —  T/cis  is  a  favor. 

"The  tournelles  adjoining  to  the  bridge  was  kept  by  Gla- 
cidas  (one  of  the  most  resolute  captains  among  the  English,) 
having  well  encouraged  his  men  to  defend  themselves  and  to 
fight  for  their  lives. 

'•  The  skirmish  begins  at  nine  of  the  clock  in  the  morning, 
and  the  ladders  are  planted.  A  storm  of  English  arrows  falls 
upon  our  men  with  such  violence  as  they  recoiled.  '  How 
now  ! '  sailli  the  Virgin,  '  liave  we  begun  so  well  to  end  so  ill .' 
let  us  charge  !  they  are  our  own,  seeing  God  is  on  our  side  ! ' 
so  every  one  recovering  his  forces,  flocks  about  the  Virgin. 
The  English  double  the  storm  upon  the  thickest  of  the  troops. 
The  Virgin  fighting  in  the  foremost  ranks  and  encouraging 
lier  men  to  do  well  was  shot  through  the  arm  with  an  arrow  j 
she,  nothing  amazed,  takes  tlie  arrow  in  one  hand  and  her 
sword  in  the  other,  'This  is  a  favor! '  says  she,  '  let  us  go 
on  1  they  caimot  escape  the  hand  of  GOD  ! '  " 

Chapelain  has  dilated  this  exclamation  of  the  Maiil  into  a 
ridiculous  speech. 

Quay  I  valeiircuz  Oucrricrs,  quay !  dans  vostrc  avantage 

Un  pea  de  sang  perdu,  vousfatt  perdre  courage .' 

Pour  moy,je  le  repute,  a  supreme  bonheur, 

Et  dans  ce  petit  malje  tronnc  un  grand  honncur  ; 

La  siicces,  bicn  qu'lieurcux,  n'eu-tt  en  rien  d'lwnnorable. 

Si  le  del  n'eust  permis  un  coup  si  favorable  ; 

P'ous  n'cn  ivrrn  pas  mains  ros  bras  victorieur, 

J'cn  vcrray  senlcmcnt  mon  nam  plus  gluricux.  —  L.  III. 

Note  155,  p.  47,  col.  2. —  Qlacidas. 

I  can  make  nothing  English  of  this  name.  Monstrellet 
calls  him  Clacedas  and  Clasendas.  Daniel  says  the  principal 
leaders  of  the  English  were  Suffolk,  Talbot,  Scales,  Eastolffe, 
et  un  nomnie  Olacidas  ou  Clacida.'i,  dont  le  merite  suppliant  a 
la  naissanne,  I'avoit  fait  parvenir  aux  premieres  charges  de 

The  importance  attached  to  a  second  name  is  well  exempli- 
fied by  an  extract  in  Selden,  relating  to  "tlie  creation  of 
Robert  earle  of  Glocester  natural  sonne  to  king  Henry  I.  The 
king  having  speech  with  Mabile  the  sole  daughter  and  heire 
of  Robert  Fitz  llayman  lord  of  Glocester,  told  her  (as  it  is  re- 
ported in  an  old  English  rithmical  story  attributed  to  one 
Robert  of  Glocester,)  that 

—  he  seold  his  sone  to  her  spousing  avonge. 

This  maid  was  ther  agen,  and  vvithsaid  it  long. 

The  king  of  sought  her  suithe  ynou,  so  that  atten  ende 

Mabile  him  answered,  as  gode  maide  and  hende, 

Syre,  heo  sede,  well  ichot,  that  your  hert  op  me  is. 

More  vor  mine  eritage  than  vor  my  sulve  iwis. 

So  vair  eritage  as  ich  abbe,  it  were  me  grete  shame, 

Vor  to  abbe  an  louerd,  bote  he  had  an  tuoname. 

Sir  Roberd  le  Fitz  Haim  my  faders  name  was, 

And  that  ne  might  noght  be  his  that  of  his  kunne  noght 

Therefore,  syre,  vor  Codes  love,  ne  let  me  non  mon  owe. 
Bote  he  abbe  an  tuoname  war  thotu  he  he  yknowe. 
Damaysale,  quoth  the  king,  thou  seist  well  in  this  cas, 
Sir  Roberd  le  Fitz  Haim  thy  faders  name  was  ; 
And  as  vayr  name  he  shall  abbe,  gif  nic  him  may  byse 

!Sir  Roberd  le  Fitz  Roy  is  name  shall  be. 

t-'ire,  quoth  this  maid  tho,  thai  is  vayr  name 

As  woo  seilh  all  his  life  and  of  great  fame. 

Ac  wat  shold  his  sone  liote  thanne  and  other  that  of  him  come, 

i^one  might  hii  liote  noght  thereof  nameth  gone. 

The  king  understood  that  the  maid  ne  sede  non  outrage, 

And  that  Glouccstre  was  chief  of  hyre  eritage. 

Damaseile  he  syde  tho,  thi  louerd  shall  abbe  a  name 

Vor  him  and  vor  his  heirs  vayr  without  blame. 

Vor  Roberd  earle  of  Glouccstre  is  name  shall  be  and  yis, 

Vor  he  shall  be  earle  of  Glouccstre  and  his  heirs  ywis. 

Sire,  quoth  this  maid  tho,  well  liketh  mc  tliis, 

In  this  forme  ichole  that  all  my  thyng  be  his. 

Thus  was  e".rle  of  Glouccstre  first  ymade  there 

As  this  Roberd  of  all  thulke  that  long  hyvore  were, 

This  w:is  cnleve  hundn-d  yeare,  and  in  the  ninth  yeer  right 

After  that  ure  louerd  was  in  his  moder  alygt." 

Sclden's  Titles  of  Honor. 

Note  15fi,  p.  48,  col.  I.  —  Seeking  the  inner  court. 

On  entering  the  outer  gate,  the  next  part  that  presented 
itself  was  the  outer  ballium  or  bailey,  separated  from  the  inner 
ballium  by  a  strong  embattled  wall  and  towered  gate. 

Note   157,  p.  48,  col.  2.  —  llie  engines  shower''d  their  sheets  of 
liquid  fre. 

When  the  Black  Prince  attacked  the  castle  of  Romorantin, 
"  there  was  slain  hard  by  him  an  English  esquire  named  Jacob 
Bernard,  whereat  the  prince  was  so  displeaseil,  that  he  took 
his  most  solemn  oath,  and  sware  by  his  father's  soul  not  to 
leave  the  siege,  till  he  had  the  castle  and  all  within  at  his 
mercy.  Then  the  assault  was  renewed  much  hotter  than  ever, 
till  at  last  the  prince  saw  there  was  no  likelihood  of  prevailing 
that  way.  Wherefore  presently  he  gave  order  to  raise  certain 
engines,  wherewith  they  cast  combusti'ile  matter  enflameil 
after  the  manner  of  wild  fire  into  the  base  court  so  fast,  and 
in  such  quantities,  that  at  last  the  whole  court  seemed  to  be 
one  huge  lire.  Whereupon  tho  excessive  heat  prevailed  so, 
that  it  took  hold  of  the  roof  of  a  great  tower,  which  was 
covered  with  ree<l,  and  so  began  to  spread  over  all  the  castle. 
Now  therefore  when  these  vali  uit  captains  within  saw,  that 
of  necessity  they  must  either  submit  entirely  to  the  prince's 
courtesy,  or  perish  by  the  most  merciless  of  elements,  they 
all  together  came  down  and  yielded  themselves  absolutely  to 
his  grace."  —  Joshua  Barnes. 

Note    158,  p.  49,  col.  1.  —  TTie  orijlamme  of  death. 

The  oritlamme  was  a  standard  erected  to  denote  that  no 
quarter  wcmld  be  given.  It  is  said  to  have  been  of  red  silk, 
adorned  and  beaten  with  very  broad  and  fair  lilies  of  gold,  and 
bordered  about  with  gold  and  vermilion.  Le  Moyne  has 
given  it  a  suitable  escort : 

Ensuite  Voriflammc  ardent  et  himinruse, 
Marche  sur  un  grand  char,  dont  la  forme  est  affreuae. 
Quatre  enormrs  dragons  d'un  or  ombre  ecaillei, 
Kt  de  pourpre,  d'azur,  et  de  vert  cmaillez, 
Dans  qutlquc  occasion  que  le  besoin  le  parte. 
Lay  font  unc  pompeuse  et  formidable  escorte 
iJans  leur  terribles  yeux  des  grenas  arrondis, 
De  leur  feu,  de  leur  sang,  font  prur  aux  plus  hardia, 
Et  si  ccfea  paroist  allumir  leur  audace, 
Jlussiparoist  ce  sang  animer  leur  menace. 
Le  char  roulant  sous  eux,  il  semble  au  roulement, 
Qu'i7  /fs/urae  voler  uvecque.  fifflement : 
El  de  lapaudre,  en  Vair,  il  scfuit  desfumees 
A  leur  bouchcs  du  vent  et  du  bruit  animees. 
Philip  is  said  by  some   historians  to  have  erected  the  ori- 
flamme  at  Crcssy,  where  Edward  in  return  raised  up  his  burn- 
ing dragon,  the  Englisli  signal  for  no  quarter.     The  oriflamme 
was  originally  used  only  in  wars  against  the  Infidels,  for  it 
was  a  sacred  banner,  and  believed  to  have  been  sent  from 

Note  159,  p.  49,  col.  2.  —  The  tower,  the  bridge,  and  all  its 
Sunk  with  a  mighty  crash. 
At  this  woman's  voice  amidst  the  sound  of  war,  the  combal 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC, 


t'rows  very  liot.  Our  men,  greatly  encouraged  by  tlio  Virgin, 
run  lieatUonjj  to  the  bastion  ami  loree  a  point  tbereof ;  llien 
lire  and  stones  rain  so  viol  ntly,  aa  the  En^'lish  being  amazed, 
lorsako  their  defences :  some  are  sKiin  upon  the  place,  some 
tlirow  themselves  down  headlong,  and  fly  lo  the  tower  upon 
the  bridge.  In  the  end  this  brave  Cilauidas  abandons  this 
quarter,  and  retires  into  the  base  couit  u|)on  the  bridge,  and 
after  him  a  great  number  ol"  his  soldiers.  The  bridge  gre:itly 
shaken  with  artillery,  tryed  by  fire,  and  overch  irged  with  the 
weight  ot"  this  multitude,  sinks  into  the  water  with  a  fearful 
cry,  carrying  all  this  multitude  with  it.  —  De  Series. 

This  circumstance  lias  been  magnified  into  a  miracle. 
"  The  French,  for  the  most  part,  draw  the  institution  of  the 
order  of  .St.  Michael  principally  from  a  purpose  that  Charles 
had  to  make  it,  after  the  apparition  of  the  archangel  upon  Or- 
leans bridge,  as  the  tuteUiry  angell  of  France  assisting  against 
the  English  in  l-i-2S."  —  Sehlcn's  Tillrs  vf  Honor. 

The  expressions  are  somewhat  curious  in  the  patent  of  this 
ordre  de  .Monsieur  St.  JMichael  Archange.  I.ouis  XI.  insti- 
tuted it  "  d  ta  gloire  ct  loaanire  de  Dicu  nosire  createur  tout 
puissant,  et  reverence  de  la  glorieusc  vierge  Marie,  d  Vlicnneur 
et  reverence  de  St.  Michael,  premier  chevalier,  qui  par  la 
querelle  de  Dieu,  batlaile  contre  I'ancien  enemy  de  I'humain 
lignage,  ct  left  tresbucher  de  Ciel.'' 

Note  ]  60,  p.  49,  col.  2.  — the  ascending  flames 

Blaze  up. 

Les  dictes  bastiles  et  fortresses  farent  prestement  arses  etde- 
molies  jusques  en  terre,  affin  que  nidles  gens  de  guerre  de  quel- 
conque  pays  quilz  soient  ne  si  peussent  plus  loger. 

Monstrelkt,  11.  f.  43. 

Note  161,  p.  49,  col.  2.  —  Silence  itself  loas  dreadful. 

Un  cry,  que  le  bcsoin  ou  la  peur  fait  jetter. 

El  les  airs  agitcs  les  peuvcnt  agiler. 

Une  haleine,  un  sousper  et  mesmc  !e  silence 

Auz  chefs,  comme  aui  soldate  font  perdre  Vassurance. 

Chapelain,  L.  ix. 

Note   162,  p.  50,  col.  1.  — .  .  .  .  the  proud  prelate,  that  blood- 
guilty  man. 
Who,  trembling  for  the  churcli''$  ill- 
got  wealth. 
Bade  our    Fifth   Henry    claim    the 
crown  if  France. 

But  the  first  terrible  bloic  in  England  given  generally  to  all 
Orders,  was  in  the  Lay  Parliament,  as  it  is  called,  which  did 
wholly  Wicclifiie,  kept  in  the  twelfth  year  of  king  Henry  the 
Fourth,  wherein  the  A''obles  and  Commons  assembled,  signified 
to  the  King,  that  the  temporal  possessions  of  Abbots,  Priors,  ic. 
lewdly  spent  within  the  Realm,  would  suffice  to  find  and 
sustain  150  Earls,  1500  Knights,  6200  Esquires,  100  Hospitals, 
more  than  there  were.  But  this  motion  was  raaul'd  with  the 
king's  own  hand,  who  dash'd  it,  personally  interposing  Himself 
contrary  to  that  character,  which  the  jealous  Clergi/  had  con- 
ceived of  Him,  that  coming  to  the  Crown  lie  would  be  a  great 
enemy  to  the  Church.  Cut  though  Henry  Plantagenct  Uuke 
of  Lancaster  was  no  friend  to  the  Clergie,  perchance  to  ingra- 
tiate himself  with  the  people,  yet  the  same //enri/ king  of  jEn^- 
land.  His  interest  being  altered,  to  strengthen  Him  with  the 
considerable  power  of  the  Clergy,  proved  a  Patron  yea  a 
Champion  to  defend  them.  However  we  may  say,  that  now 
the  Am  is  laid  lo  the  root  of  the  tree  of  Abbeys ;  and  this  stroke 
for  the  present,  though  it  was  so  far  from  hurting  the  body,  that 
it  scarce  pierced  the  bark  thereof,  yet  bare  attempts  in  such 
matters  arc  important,  as  putting  into  people's  heads  a  fea- 
sibility of  the  project  formerly  conceived  altogether  impossible. 

Few  years  after,  namely,  in  the  second  year  o{  king  Henry 
the  Fifth,  another  shrewd  thrust  wa»  made  at  English  Abbeys, 
but  it  was  (incly  and  cleverly  put  aside  by  that  skilful  State- 
Fencer  Henry  Chichcsly  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  For  the 
former  Bill  against  Abbeys,  in  full  Parliament  was  revived, 
when  tlie  .\rchbishop  minded  king  Henry  of  his  undoubted 
Title  to  the  fair  and  flourishing  kingdom  of  France.  Hereat, 
that  king  who  was  a  spark  in  Himself,  was  enflamed  to  that 
design  by  this  Prelate's  persuasion  ■•  and  his  native  courage 

ran  fiercely  on  the  project,  especially  when  clapt  on  with 
conscience  and  encouragement  from  a  churchman  in  the  law- 
fulness thereof.  An  undertaking  of  those  vast  dimensions, 
that  the  greatest  covetousness  might  spread,  and  highest  am- 
bition reach  itself  within  the  bounds  thereof.  If  to  promote 
this  project,  the  Abbeys  advanced  not  only  large  and  liberal, 
but  vast  and  incredible  sums  of  money,  it  is  no  wonder  if  they 
were  contented  to  have  their  nails  pared  close  to  the  quick 
thereby  to  save  their  fingers.  Over  goes  king  Henry  intc 
France,  with  many  martial  spirits  attending  him,  so  that  put- 
ting the  king  upon  the  seeking  of  a  new  Ciowii,  kejit  the  Ab- 
bots' old  Mitres  upon  their  heads  ;  and  Monasteries  tottering 
at  this  timr,  were  (thank  a  politic  .\rchbishop)  refixed  on  the 
firm  Ibundations,  though  this  proved  rather  a  reprieve  than  a 
pardon  unto  them.  —  Fuller's  Church  Histonj,  B.  6,  p.  302. 

The  archbishop  of  Bourges  explained  to  the  king,  in  the 
hall  of  the  bishop  of  Winchester,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
dukes  of  Clarence,  Bedford  and  Gloucester,  brothers  to  the 
king,  and  of  the  lords  of  the  council,  clergy,  chivalry  and 
populace,  the  objects  of  his  embassy.  The  archbishop  spoke 
first  in  Latin,  and  then  in  the  Walloon  language,  so  eloquently 
and  wisely,  that  both  F.nglisli  and  French  who  heard  him 
were  greatly  surprised.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  harangue 
he  made  offers  to  the  king  of  a  large  sum  of  ready  money  on 
his  marriage  with  the  princess  Catherine,  but  on  condition 
that  he  would  disband  the  army  he  had  collected  at  Southamp- 
ton, and  at  the  adjacent  seaports,  to  invade  France  ;  and  that 
by  these  means  an  eternal  peace  would  be  established  between 
the  two  kingdoms. 

The  assembly  broke  up  when  the  archbishop  had  ended  his 
speech,  and  the  French  ambassadors  were  kindly  entertained 
at  dinner  by  the  king,  who  then  appointed  a  day  for  them  to 
receive  his  answer  to  their  propositions  by  the  mouth  of  the 
archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

In  the  course  of  the  archbishop's  speech,  in  which  he  replied, 
article  by  article,  to  what  the  archbishop  of  Bourires  had 
offered,  he  added  to  some  and  passed  over  others  of  them,  so 
that  he  was  sharply  interrupted  by  the  archbishop  of  Bourges, 
who  exclaimed,  "  I  did  not  say  so,  but  such  were  my  words." 
The  conclusion,  however,  was,  that  unless  the  king  of  France 
would  give,  as  a  marriage-portion  with  his  daughter,  the 
duchies  of  Acquitaine,  of  Xorniandy,  of  Anjou,  of  Tours,  the 
counties  of  Ponthieu,  Maine  and  Poitou,  and  every  other  part 
that  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  English  monarchs,  the  king 
would  not  desist  from  his  intended  invasion  of  France,  but 
would  despoil  the  whole  of  that  kingdom  which  had  been  un- 
justly detained  from  him  ;  and  that  he  should  depend  on  his 
sword  for  the  accomi)lishment  of  the  above,  and  for  depriving 
king  Cliarles  of  his  crown. 

Tlio  king  avowed  what  the  archbishop  had  said,  and  added 
that  thus,  with  God's  aid,  he  would  act ;  and  promised  it  on 
the  word  of  a  king.  The  archbishop  of  Bourges  then,  accord- 
ing to  tlie  custom  in  France,  demanded  permission  to  speak 
and  said,  "  O  king  !  how  canst  thou,  consistently  with  honor 
and  justice,  thus  wish  to  dethrone  and  iniquitously  destroy 
the  most  Christian  king  of  the  French,  our  very  dear  lord  ana 
most  excellent  of  all  the  kings  in  Christendom  .'  Oking!  with 
all  due  reverence  and  respect,  dost  thou  think  that  he  has 
ofiVred  by  me  such  extent  of  territory,  and  so  large  a  sum  of 
money  with  his  daugliter  in  marriage,  through  any  fear  of  thee, 
thy  subjects  or  allies  .'  By  no  means  ;  but,  moved  by  pity  and 
his  love  of  peace,  he  has  made  these  oft'ers  to  avoid  the  shedding 
of  innocent  blood,  and  that  Christian  people  may  not  be  over- 
whelmed in  the  miseries  of  war ;  for  whenever  thou  shalt 
make  thy  promised  attempt  he  will  call  upon  God,  the  blessed 
Virgin,  and  on  all  the  saints,  making  his  appeal  to  them  for 
the  justice  of  his  cause  ;  and  with  their  aid,  and  the  support 
of  his  loyal  subjects  and  faitliful  allies,  thou  wilt  be  driven 
out  of  his  dominions,  or  thou  wilt  be  made  prisoner,  or  thou 
wilt  there  suffer  death  by  orders  of  that  just  king  whose  am- 
bassadors we  are. 

"  We  have  now  only  to  intreat  of  thee  that  thou  wouldst 
have  us  safely  conducted  out  of  thy  realm  ;  and  that  thou 
wouldst  write  to  our  said  king,  under  thy  hand  and  seal,  the 
answer  which  thou  bast  given  to  us." 

The  king  kindly  granted  their  request ;  and  the  ambassa- 
dors, having  received  handsome  presents,  returned  by  way  of 
Dover  to  Calais  and  thence  to  Paris. 

Monstrclct,  vol.  iv.  p.  129. 


NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

Within  a  few  (lays  after  the  expiration  of  the  truce,  king 
Henry,  whose  prei)aration3  were  now  conijileted,  sent  one  of 
his  heralds,  called  (Jlocestcr,  to  Paris,  to  deliver  letters  to  the 
king,  of  wliich  the  contents  were  as  follows. 

"To  the  very  nolde  prince  Charles,  our  cousin  and  adver- 
sary of  France,  Henry,  by  the  grace  of  God,  king  of  England 
and  of  France.  To  give  to  every  one  what  is  their  due,  is  a 
work  of  inspiration  and  wise  council,  very  nohle  i)rince,  our 
cousin  and  adversaiy.  The  nohli;  kingdoms  of  England  and 
France  were  turniorly  united,  now  they  are  divided.  At  that 
time  it  was  customary  for  each  person  to  exalt  his  name  hy 
glorious  victories,  and  hy  this  single  virtue  to  extol  the  honor 
of  God,  to  whom  holini^ss  liolongs,  and  to  give  [)eaco  to  his 
church,  liy  subjecting  in  battle  the  enemies  of  the  public  weal ; 
but  alas  !  good  faith  among  kindred  and  brotherly  love  have 
been  perverted,  and  Lot  persecutes  Abraham  by  human  im- 
putation, and  Dissention,  the  mother  of  Anger,  has  been 
raised  from  the  dead. 

"  VV'e,  however,  appeal  to  the  sovereign  Judge,  who  is 
neither  swayed  by  prayers  nor  gifts  from  doing  right,  that  we 
have,  from  pure  affection,  done  every  thing  in  our  power  to 
preserve  the  peace  ;  am!  we  must  now  rely  on  the  sword  for 
regaining  what  is  justly  our  heritage,  and  those  rights  which 
have  from  old  time  belonged  to  us  ;  and  we  feel  such  assurance 
in  our  courage,  that  we  will  tight  till  death  in  the  cause  of 

"  The  written  law  in  the  book  of  Deuteronomy  ordains, 
that  before  any  person  commences  an  attack  on  a  city  he  shall 
first  ofi'er  terms  of  pe.ace  ;  and  although  violence  has  detained 
from  us  our  rightful  inheritances,  charity,  however,  induces  us 
to  attempt,  by  iiiir  means,  their  recovery;  for  should  justice 
be  denied  us,  we  may  then  resort  to  arms 

"  And  to  avoid  having  our  conscience  affected  by  this  mat- 
ter, we  make  our  personal  request  to  you,  and  exhort  you,  by 
the  bowels  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  follow  the  dictates  of  his  evan- 
gelical doctrine.  Friend,  restore  what  thou  owest,  for  such 
is  the  will  of  (Jod  to  prevent  the  effusion  of  the  blood  of  man, 
who  was  created  in  his  likeness.  Such  restitution  of  rights, 
cruelly  torn  from  us,  and  which  we  have  so  frequently  de- 
manded by  our  ambassadors,  will  be  agreeable  to  the  supreme 
God,  and  secure  peace  on  earth. 

"  From  our  love  of  peace  we  were  inclined  to  refuse  fifty 
thousand  golden  crowns  lately  offered  us  ;  for  being  more 
desirous  of  peace  than  riches,  we  have  preferred  enjoying  the 
patrimony  left  us  by  our  venerable  ancestors,  with  our  very 
dear  cousin  Catherine,  your  noble  daughter,  to  iniquitously 
multiplying  our  treasures,  and  thus  disgracing  the  honor  of 
our  crown,  which  God  forbid  ! 

"  Given  under  our  privy  seil,  in  our  castle  of  Southampton, 
the  5th  day  of  the  month  of  August." 

Mnnslrelet,  vol.  iv.  p.  137. 

Not".  163,  p.  50,  col.  1.  — Sure  that  holy  hermit  spake 

The  Almlfrldifs  bidding. 

While  Henry  V.  lay  at  the  siege  of  Dreux,  an  honest  hermit 
unknown  to  him,  came  and  told  him  the  great  evils  he  brought 
upon  Christendom  by  his  unjust  aml)ilion,  who  usurped  the 
kingdom  of  France,  against  all  manner  of  right,  and  contrary 
to  the  will  of  God  ;  wherefore  in  his  holy  name  he  threatened 
him  with  a  severe  and  sudden  punishment,  if  he  desisted  not 
from  his  enterprise.  Henry  took  this  exhortation  either  as  an 
idly  whimsey,  or  a  suggestion  of  the  Dauphin's,  and  was  but 
the  more  confirmed  in  his  design.  But  the  blow  soon  followed 
the  threatening ;  for  within  some  few  months  after,  he  was 
smitten  in  the  fundament  with  a  strange  and  incurable  disease. 


Note  164,  p.  50,  col.  1.  —    they  thought 

The  spirits  of  the  mothers  and  their  babes 
Famish'd  at  Roan  sat  on  the  clouds  of 

Reseraverat  antrum 

Tartareus  Rector  pallens,  ut^iie  anna  nefanda 
Spectarent,  caperentque  sui  solatia  fati, 
Invisas  illuc  Libyes  emiserat  umbras  : 
Undique  consedere  arvis,  nigr&que  corond 
Injecire  diem,  versatilis  umbra  Jugurthce, 

Annibalis  smvi  Manes,  captique  Syphacis, 
Qui  nunc  cversas  seciim  Carthaginis  arces 
Jgnovere  Deis,  poslquam  feralia  campi 
Prarlia  Thapsiaci,  et  Latios  vidn-e furores. 

Supplemcntum  Lucani,  Lib.  III. 
I  am  not  conscious  of  having  imitated  these  lines  ;  but  1 
would  not  lose  the  opportunity  of  (luoting  so  fine  a  passage 
from  Thomas  May,  an  author  to  whom  I  owe  some  obligations, 
and  who  is  not  remembered  as  his  merits  deserve.  May  him- 
self has  imitated  Valerius  Flaccus  in  this  passage,  though  he 
has  greatly  surpassed  him. 

El.  ■patrr  oraides  casorum.  Tartarus  umbras, 
JSTuhe  cava,  tandem  ad  merit<e  svcctncula  pugnu: 
Emittit ;  summi  nigrescunt  culmina  mantis. 

Note  105,  p.  50,  col.  1.  — nor  aught  avails 

Man  unassisted  'gainst  infernal  powers 
To  dare  the  conflict. 

To  some,  says  Speed,  it  may  appear  more  honorable  to  our 
nation,  that  they  were  not  to  be  expelled  by  a  human  power, 
but  by  a  divine,  extraordinarily  revealing  itself. 

Note  166,  p.  50,  col.  3.  —  By  their  numbers  now  made  bold  in 
JVec  pavidam  murmur;  consensu  audacia  r.revit, 
Tantaque  turba  metu  panarum  solvit  ab  omni. 

May,  Sup.  Lucani. 

Note  167,  p.  50,  col.  2.  — Joy  ran  through  all  the  troops. 

In  Rymer's  Fcr-dera  are  two  proclamations,  one  "  coittra 
capilantos  et  soldarios  terniversnntes,  incantationibus  PuelUe 
terrijicalos ;"  the  other,  ^^  defugitivis  ab  ezercitu  quos  tcrri- 
culamenta  PuelUe  exunimaverant,  arcstandis." 

Note  1C8,  p.  50,  col.  2.  —  The  social  bowl. 
Ronaard  remarks, 

Rien  n'est  meilleur  pour  I'homme  soul-ager 

.Hpres  le  mat,  que  le  boire  et  manger.  —  Franciado. 

Note  169,  p.  51,  col.  2. 9  casquetel. 

A  lighter  kind  of  helmet. 

Note  170,  p.  51 ,  col.  2.  —  Hung  from  her  neck  the  shield. 

The  shield  was  often  worn  thus.  "  Among  the  Frenchmen 
there  was  a  young  lusty  esquire  of  Gascoigne,  named  William 
Marchant,  who  came  out  among  the  foremost  into  the  field, 
well  mounted,  his  shield  about  his  neck,  and  his  spear  in  his 
hand."  —  Barnes. 

This  is  fre(piently  alluded  to  in  romance.  "  Then  the  knight 
of  the  burning  sword  stept  forward,  and  lifting  up  his  arm  as 
if  he  would  strike  Cynocephal  on  the  top  of  bis  head,  seized 
with  his  left  hand  on  the  shield,  which  he  pulled  to  him  with 
so  much  strength,  that  plucking  it  from  his  neck  he  brought 
him  to  the  ground."  —  Jimadis  dc  Greece. 

Sometimes  the  shield  was  laced  to  the  shoulder. 
The  shield  of  the  middle  ages  must  not  be  confounded  with 
that  of  the  ancients.  The  knight  might  easily  bear  his  small 
shield  around  his  neck  ;  but  the  Grecian  warrior  stood  pro- 
tecting his  thighs  and  his  legs,  his  In-east  also  and  his  shoulders 
witk  the  body  of  his  broad  shield. 

Mr/pot)f  T£  Kvrjpa;  re  xarot  xat  arepva  xai  (opov; 
Ao-rri^of  cvpcirji  yaarpt  KaXvipapcvOf.  —  Tyrta:us. 
But  the  most  convenient  shields  were  used  by  — 
Ccux  qu'on  voit  dcmeurer  dans  les  ties  Alandes, 
Qui  portent  pour  pavois,  dcs  escailles  si  grandes. 
Que  lors  qu'ilfaut  camper,  le  soldat  qui  s'en  sert 
En  fait  comme  une  hutte,  et  s'y  met  d  couvcrt.  —  Alaric. 

Note  171,  p.  52,  col.  1.  —  An  artnet. 
The  armet  or  chapelle  de  fer  was  an  iron  hat,  occasionally 
put  on  by  knights  when  they  retired   from  the  heat  of  the 
battle  to  take  breath,  and  at  times  when  they  could  not  will, 
propriety  go  unarmed. 

JNOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


NoT£   172,  p.  53,  col.  1.  —  FU'd  tutr  last  kisses  on  tltcir  armed 
Sed  contra  (Enotrui  pubes 
JVon  ullas  races  dtuis  aut  praxepta  rcquirit. 
Sat  matrcs  stimulant,  natiquc,  et  cava  supinas 
Tendaitum  palmas  lacrimantiaque  ora  parcntam. 
Ostentant  purros,  vagittujue  incita  pulsunt 
Curda  virUiii,  armatis  injigunt  oscula  dcxtris. 

SUiiis  Itulicus,  xii.  587. 

Note  173,  p.  54,  col.  2.  —  He  brake  a  sullen  smile. 

"  She  sternly  shook  her  dewy  locks,  ami  br:ike 
A  melancholy  smile."  —  Quarks, 

Note  174,  p.  55,  col.  1.  — then  on  the  herald 

A  robe  rich-furr'd  ami  broider'd  he  bcstow'd. 

When  the  armies  of  England  and  France  lay  in  the  plain 
between  Virontbsse  and  Flemenguere,  1339,  Edward  sent  to 
di'mand  a  day  of  battle  of  the  Frcncli  king.  "  An  herald  of 
the  duke  of  Gueldres,  l)eing  well  skilled  in  the  French  tongue, 
was  sent  on  this  errand:  he  rode  forth  till  he  came  to  thf! 
French  host,  where  being  admitted  before  the  king  and  bis 
council,  he  spake  aloud  tliese  words,  'Sir,  the  king  of  England 
is  here  hard  by  in  the  fields,  and  desires  to  fight  you  power 
against  jiower  ;  and  if  you  please  to  appoint  him  a  day  he  will 
not  fiiil  to  meet  yon  upon  the  word  of  a  king.'  This  message 
being  thus  delivered,  king  Philip  yielded  either  to  give  or 
take  battle  two  days  after,  and  in  token  of  his  acceptance  of 
the  news,  richly  rewarded  the  herald  with  furred  gowns,  and 
other  gifts  bestowed  on  him,  as  well  by  himself  as  others,  the 
princes  and  lords  of  his  host,  and  so  disniissod  him  again."  — 

Note  175,  p.  55,  col.  1.  — and  at  the  third  long  sound 

Tlicy  ranged  them,  in  their  ranlis. 

Every  man  was  warned  to  rise  from  sleep  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  trumpet ;  at  tha  second  to  arm  without  delay,  and  at 
the  third  to  take  horse  in  his  due  place  under  the  colors. — 

Note  176,  p.  55,  col.  1.  —  To  shrive  them. 

Religious  ceromonies  seem  to  have  preceded  all  settled  en- 
gagements at  this  period.  On  the  night  before  the  battle  of 
Cressy,  "  King  Edward  made  a  supper  in  his  royal  pavilion  for 
all  his  chief  barons,  lords  and  captains :  at  which  be  appeared 
wonderful  chearful  and  pleasant,  to  the  great  encouragement 
of  his  people.  But  when  they  were  all  dismissed  to  tlieir 
several  quarters,  the  king  himself  retired  into  his  private  ora- 
tory, and  came  before  the  altar,  and  there  prostrated  himself 
to  almighty  God  and  devoutly  prayed,  'That  of  his  infinite 
goodness  ho  would  vouchsafe  to  look  down  on  the  justice  of 
his  cause,  and  remember  his  unfeigned  endeavors  for  a  recon- 
cilement, although  they  had  all  been  rendered  frustrate  by  his 
enemies  :  that  if  he  should  be  brought  to  a  battle  the  next  day, 
it  would  please  him  of  bis  great  mercy  to  grant  him  the  vic- 
tory, as  his  trust  was  only  in  him,  and  in  the  right  which  he 
had  given  him.'  Being  thus  armed  with  faith,  about  midnight 
he  laid  himself  upon  a  pallet  or  mattress  to  take  a  little  re- 
pose ;  but  he  arose  again  betimes  and  heard  mass,  with  his 
son  the  young  prince,  and  received  absolution,  and  the  body 
and  blood  of  his  Redeemer,  as  did  the  prince  also,  and  most 
of  the  lords  and  others  who  were  so  disposed."  —  Barnes. 

Thus  .".Iso  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt  "  after  prayers  and 
supplications  of  the  king,  his  priests  and  people,  done  with 
great  devotion,  the  king  of  England  in  the  morning  very  early 
set  forth  his  hosts  in  array."  —  Stoice. 

Note  177,  p.  55,  col.  1.  —  The  shield  vf  dignity. 

The  roundel.     .\  shield  too  weak  for  service,  which  was 
borne  before  the  general  of  an  army. 

.Note  178,  p.  55,  col.  1. 

— that  in  nndiminish'd  strength 

Strong,  theij  might  meet  the  battle. 

The  conduct  of  the  English  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  of 
Cressy  is  followed  in  the  text.  "  All  things  being  thus  order- 
ed  every  lord  and  captain  under  his  own  banner  and  pennon, 

and  the  ranks  duly  settled,  the  valourous  young  king  mounted 
on  a  lusty  white  hobby,  and  with  a  white  wand  in  his  hand, 
rode  between  his  two  niarshalls  from  rank  to  rank,  and  from 
one  battalia  unto  another,  exhorting  and  encouraging  every 
man  that  day  to  defend  and  maintain  his  right  and  honour :  and 
this  bo  did  with  so  chearful  a  countenance,  and  with  such 
sweet  and  obliging  words,  that  even  the  most  faint-hearted 
of  the  army  were  sufficiently  assured  thereby.  By  that  time 
the  English  were  thus  prepared,  it  was  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  then  the  king  commanded  them  all  to  take  their 
refreshment  of  meat  and  drink,  which  being  done,  with  small 
disturbance  they  all  rejiaircd  to  their  colours  again,  and  then 
laid  themselves  in  their  order  upon  the  dry  and  warm  grass, 
with  their  bows  and  helmets  by  their  side,  to  be  more  fresh 
and  vigorous  upon  the  approach  of  the  enemy."  —  Barnes. 

The  English  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt  "  fell  prostrate 
to  the  ground,  and  committed  themselves  to  God,  every  of 
them  tooke  in  his  mouth  a  little  piece  of  earth,  in  remem- 
brance that  they  were  mortall  and  made  of  earth,  as  also  in 
remembrance  of  the  holv  communion."  —  Stoice. 

Note  179,  p.  55,  col.  2  — T^ie  pennons  rolling  their  long  waves 
Before  the  gale,  and  banners  broad  and  bright. 

The  pennon  was  long,  ending  in  two  points,  the  banner 
square.  "  Un  seigneur  n'etoit  banneret  et  ne  pouvoil  porter  la 
banniere  quarrce,  que  lors  qu'ilpouvoit  entrctenir  a  ses  depens 
un  certain  nombre  de  chevaliers  et  d'Ecuyers,  avec  leur  suite  a 
la  guerre:  jusquesla  son  etendard  avoit  deux  queues  oufanons, 
el  quand  il  devenoit  plus  puissant,  so7i  souverain  cuupoit  lui- 
meme  les  fanons  de  son  etendard,  pour  le  rendre  quarrc."  — 

An  incident  before  the  battle  of  Najara  exemplifies  this. 
"  As  the  two  armies  approached  near  together,  the  prince 
went  over  a  little  hill,  in  the  descending  w  hereof  he  saw- 
plainly  his  enemies  marching  toward  him  :  wherefore  when 
the  whole  army  was  come  over  this  mountain,  he  commanded 
that  there  (hey  should  make  an  halt,  and  so  fit  themselves  for 
fight.  At  that  instant  the  lord  John  Chandos  brought  his 
ensign  folded  uii,  and  offered  it  to  the  prince,  saying,  '  Sir, 
here  is  my  guidon  ;  I  request  your  highness  to  display  it 
abroad,  and  to  give  me  leave  to  raise  it  this  day  as  my  banner  ; 
for  I  thank  God  and  your  highness,  I  have  lands  and  posses- 
sions sufficient  to  maintain  it  withall.'  Then  the  prince  took 
the  pennon,  and  having  cut  oflTthe  tail,  made  it  a  square  ban- 
ner, and  this  done,  both  he  and  king  Don  Pedro  for  the  greater 
honour,  holding  it  between  their  hands  displayed  it  abroad,  it 
being  Or,  a  sharp  i)ile  Gules  :  and  then  the  prince  delivered 
it  unto  the  lord  Chandos  again,  saying,  '  Sir  John,  behold  here 
is  your  banner.  God  send  you  much  joy  and  honour  with  it.' 
And  thus  being  made  a  knight  banneret,  the  lord  Chandos 
returned  to  the  head  of  his  men,  and  said,  '  Here,  gentlemen, 
behold  my  banner  and  yours  !  Take  and  keep  it,  to  your 
honour  and  mine  I '  And  so  they  took  it  with  a  shout,  and 
said  by  the  grace  of  God  and  St.  George  they  would  defend 
it  to  the  best  of  their  powers.  But  the  banner  remained  in 
the  hands  of  a  gallant  English  esquire  named  William  Ailos- 
try,  who  bore  it  all  that  day,  and  acquitted  himself  in  the  ser- 
vice right  honourably."  —  Barnes. 

Note  180,  p.  55,  col.  2.  —  Vidamr^. 

This  title  frequently  occurs  in  the  French  Chronicles  ;  it 
was  peculiar  to  France,  "  the  vidame  or  vicedominus  being  to 
the  bishop  in  his  temporals  as  the  vicecomes  or  vicount  an- 
ciently to  the  carle,  in  bis  judicials." —  Peter  Ileylyn 

Note   181,  p.  55,  coJ.  2.  —  jSnd  silken  sureoats  to  the  mid-day 

Joshua  Barnes  seems  to  have  been  greatly  impressed  with 
the  splendor  of  such  a  spectacle.  "  It  was  a  glorious  and 
ravishing  sight,  no  doubt,"  says  he,  "  to  behold  these  two 
armies  standing  thus  regularly  embattled  in  the  field,  their 
banners  and  standards  waving  in  the  wind,  their  proud  horses 
harded,  and  kings,  lords,  knights,  and  esquires  richly  armed, 
and  all  shining  in  their  sureoats  of  satin  and  embroidery." 

Thus  also  at  I'oicticrs,  "  there  you  might  have  beheld  a  most 


NOTI-:S    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 

beautiful  si^lit  of  I'.iir  harness,  of  sliiiiin^'  sleel,  feiitliered 
srcata  of  gliUoring  helmets,  ;ind  the  rich  eiiihroiilery  of  silken 
surcoats  of  arms,  together  with  golden  standards,  banners  and 
pennons  gloriously  moving  in  the  air." 

And  at  Najara  "  the  sun  being  now  risen,  it  was  a  ravishing 
sight  to  behold  the  armies,  and  the  sun  relleeting  from  their 
bright  steel  and  shining  armour.  Tor  in  fliose  days  the  cav- 
alry were  generally  armed  in  mail  or  polished  steel  at  all 
points,  and  besides  that,  the  nobility  wore  over  their  armour 
rich  surcoats  of  silk  and  satin  embroidery,  whereon  was  curi- 
ously sticlit  or  beaten,  the  arms  of  their  house,  whether  in 
colour  or  metal." 

Note   182,  p.  .55,  col.  2.  —  For  not  to   brutal  strength   they 

deem'd  it  right 
To  trust  their  country's  weal. 

J^Tos  anccstres,  ct  notamment  du  temps  de  la  guerre  des  Aiiglois, 
en  combats  solr.mncls  etjournees  assignees,  se  metloient  la  jdus- 
part  du  temp  tons  d  pied ;  jiour  ne  se  fier  d  autre  chose  (ju'd 
leur  force  propre  et  vigueur  de  Icur  courage  et  dc  leur  membres, 
de  chose  si  chcrc  que  I'honneur  st  la  vie.  —  Montaigne,  Liv.  i. 
c.  48. 

In  the  battle  of  Patay,  Monstrellet  says,  "  Ics  Frangois 
moult  de  pres  mirdnt  pied  d  terrc,  et  descendirent  la  plus  grand 
partie  de  leur  chcvaulx." 

In  El  Cavallero  Determinado,  an  allegorical  romance  trans- 
lated from  the  French  of  Olivier  de  la  Marche  by  Hernando 
de  Acuna,  Barcelona,  15G5,  this  custom  is  referred  to  by  Un- 
derstanding, when  giving  the  knight  directions  for  his  coml)at 
with  Atropos. 

En  esto  es  vii  parccer  ^ 

Que  en  cacallo  no  tcjies ; 
Por  to  qiial  has  de  entender 

Qkc  de  ninguno  conjics 
Ta  bjmosna  y  bicn  hazcr. 

Note  183,  p.  55,  col.  2.  —  Their  javelins  shortened  to  a  wieldy 

Thus  at  Poictiers,  "  the  three  battails  being  all  ready  ranged 
in  the  field,  and  every  lord  in  his  duo  place  under  his  own 
banner,  command  was  given  that  all  men  should  put  oft"  their 
spurs,  and  cut  their  spears  to  five  foot  length,  as  most  com- 
modious for  such  who  had  left  their  horses."  —  Barnes. 

Note  184,  p.  56,  col.  1.  —  Ilrasvelger  starting. 

Hrwsvclger  vacatur 

Q,ui  sedet  in  eztremitate  cceli, 

Gigas  eiuvias  amictus  aquihe  : 

Ex  ejus  alls 

Ferunt  venire  ventum 

Omnes  super  homines.  —  Vafthrudnismal. 

Where  the  Heaven's  remotest  bound 
With  darkness  is  encompassed  round. 
There  Hrtcsvelger  sits  and  swings 
The  tempest  from  his  eagle  wings. 
The  Edda  of  Samund,  translated  by  .^mos  Cottle. 

Among  the  idols  of  Aitutaki,  (one  of  the  Hervey  Islands,) 
Sfnt  home  among  other  trophies  of  the  same  kind  to  the  Alis- 
eienary  Museum,  is  the  God  of  Thunder,  Taau.  The  natives 
used  to  believe  that  when  Taau  was  flying  abroad.  Thunder 
was  produced  by  the  flapi)ing  of  his  wings.  —  fVUliams's  Mis- 
sionary Enterprises  in  the  South  Sea  Island.^,  p.  109. 

At  the  promontory  of  .Malea  on  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of 
Ajiollo,  tliero  is  a  chapel  built  to  the  honor  of  Michael  the 
archangel.  Here  we  could  not  but  laugh  at  the  foolish  super- 
stition of  the  sailors,  who  say,  when  the  wind  blows  from  that 
place,  that  it  is  occasioned  by  the  violent  motion  of  Michael's 
wings,  because  forsooth,  be  is  painted  with  wings.  And  for 
that  reason,  when  they  sail  by  Michael  they  pray  to  him  tliat 
ho  may  hold  his  wings  still. —  Bamngarten. 

Note  185,  p.  50,  col.  1.  —Or  with  the  lance  protended  from  his 

In  a  combat  fought  in  ?mithfield,  14G7,  between  the  lord 
Scales  and  the  bastard  of  Burgoyne,  "  the  lord  Scales'  horse 

had  on  his  chafron  a  long  sharp  pike  of  Steele,  and  as  the  two 
champions  coaped  together,  the  same  horse  thrust  his  pike 
into  the  nostrills  of  the  bastard's  horse,  so  that  for  very  paine, 
he  mounted  so  high  that  be  fell  on  the  one  side  witli  his  mas- 
ter." —  Stowc. 

This  weapon  is  mentioned  by  Lope  de  Vega,  and  by  an  old 
Scotch  poet. 

Uuicornia  el  cavallo  parecia 

Con  elfuerte  pyraniide  delunie. 
Que  en  medio  del  bogul  rrsplundecia 
Coma  sifaera  punta  dc  diamante. 

Jerusalen  Covquistada,  I.  10. 

His  horse  in  fyne  sandel  was  trapped  to  the  hele, 
And,  in  his  cheveron  biforne, 
Stode,  as  an  unicorne, 
Als  sharp  as  a  tborne, 
An  anias  of  stele. 

Sir  Gawan  and  Sir  Galaron. 

Florisel  found  this  part  of  his  horse's  armour  of  good  ser- 
vice, when  in  the  combat  of  eighteen  against  eighteen,  he  en- 
countered the  king  of  the  Scythians,  o-fant  dcmesure  ;  il  che- 
vauchoit  un  grand  animal  de  sonpays,  duqacl  nous  ne  sgavuns 
le  nom  .-  aussi  etoit-il  tant  corpulent  ct  membru,  qu'un  n'cu.'it 
sgeufiiurnir  rous.iin  qui  Peusi  pen  porter.  The  first  encounter 
fat  tris  belle  jouste  d  voir,  et  aujomdre  des  corps  mourut  treiie 
cherauT,  compris  Vanimal  du  Roy  de  Scythie,  qui  fut  si  lourdc- 
ment  recontre  par  le  destrier  de  Florisel,  portant  hardes  de  fer, 
et  1/ne  poinete  aceree  sur  le  chaiifrain  qu'ilfourra  si  avantparmy 
Icsflanrz  de  ceste  grosse  beste,  qn'il  attei-race  avec  les  autres,  et 
lajumbe  de  son  ma'istre  dessaui. Smatlis,  L.  x.  ff.  51,  52. 

The  Abyssinians  use  it  at  this  day  ;  Bruce  says  it  is  a  very 
troublesome  useless  piece  of  their  armor. 

Note  186,  p.  56,  col.  2.  —  To  snatch  the  shield  of  death. 

Thus  did  Juba  catch  up  the  shield  of  death   to  defend  him- 
self from  ignominy.  —  Cleopatra. 

Note  167,  p.  56,  col.  2. —  T%eir  tower  of  strength. 
JluTCp  yap  piv  TTvpycv  cv  O(p0a\poiaiv  opwaiv. —  Tyrtaus. 

Quarles   has  made   this  expression  somewhat  ludicrous  by 
calling  Samson 

Great  army  of  men,  the  wonder  of  whose  power 
Gives  thee  the  title  of  a  walking  tower. 

Note    188,  p.  57,  col.  1.  — and  when  the  boar's  head  . . . 

Smoked  on  the  Christmas  board. 

Two  carols  for  this  occasion  are  preserved  in  Mr.  Ritson's 
valuable  collection  of  Ancient  Songs.  The  first  of  these,  here 
alluded  to,  is  as  follows: 

Caput  apri  defero 
Reddens  laudes  domino. 

The  bore's  heed  in  hand  bring  I 
AVilh  garlands  gay  and  rosemary, 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merely 
Qui  cstis  in  convivio. 

The  bore's  heed  I  undcrstande 
Is  the  cbefe  servyce  in  this  lande, 
Loke  where  ever  it  be  fande 
Sercite  cum  canlico. 

Be  gladde  lordes  bothe  more  and  lasse 
For  this  nath  ordeyned  our  stcwardc, 
To  chere  you  all  this  christmasse 
The  bore's  heed  with  mustarde. 

When  Henry  II.  bad  his  eldest  son  crowned  as  fellow  with 
him  in  the  kingdom,  upon  the  day  of  coronation,  king  Henry, 
the  father,  served  his  son  at  the  table  as  sewer,  bringing  up 
the  bore's  head  with  trumpets  before  it,  according  to  the  man 
ncr ;  whereupon  (according  to  the  old  adage, 

Immutant  mores  homines  cum  dantur  honorcs) 

the  young  man  conceiving  a  pride  in  his  heart,  beheld  the 
atanders-by  with  a  more  stately  countenance  than  be  had  been 
wont.     The  archbishop  of  York  who  sat  by  him,  marking  bis 

NOTES    TO    JOAN    OF    ARC. 


beliiiviour,  luriu'il  unto  him  iiinl  s;iiil,  "  Be  glad,  my  good  son, 
there  is  not  another  prince  in  the  world  that  hath  such  a  sewer 
ut  his  I  ihle."  I'o  this  the  new  king  answered  as  it  were  dis- 
daintiilly  lluis:  "  Wiiy  doest  thou  marvel  at  that?  my  father 
in  doing  it  lliinkoth  it  not  more  than  hecomoth  him,  lie  being 
born  ol"  princely  blood  oiily  on  the  mother's  side,  serveth  me 
that  am  a  king  born,  having  both  a  king  to  my  father  and  a 
queen  to  my  mother."  Thus  the  young  man  of  an  evil  and 
perverse  nature,  was  pulled  ui)in  pride  by  hiii  father's  unseemly 

lint  the  king  bis  fitber  hearing  his  talk  was  very  sorrowful 
in  his  mind,  and  said  to  the  urcbbisbop  softly  in  his  ear,  "  It 
rcpenteth  me,  it  repentcth  me,  my  lord,  that  I  have  thus  ad- 
vanced tho  boy."  For  ho  guessed  hereby  what  a  one  he  would 
prove  afterward,  that  shewed  himself  so  disobedient  and  for- 
ward already.  —  Uolinshcd. 

Note  189,  p.  57,  col.  1.  — his  old  limbs 

Arc  nut  like  yours  so  supple  in  Vie  flight. 

Tuuj  it  rraXaiOTcpovs,  lov  ovKcrt  yovvaT'  e\a<ppa, 
Ml)  KaTaXciTTOfTCi  ipcvyCTC  rovi  ycpatovg. 

Ataxpov  yap  iri  tovto  ptra  npopaxotai  ncTovra, 
KciaOat  vpoaOc  vcmv  avipa  TraXaporcpov, 

Hin  XcvKov  txovra  Kaprj,  iroXiov  re  yevtiov, 
Qi'itov  aiTOTTveiovT'  aXKipov  cv  Kovir}.  —  Tyrtteus. 

Note  190,  p.  57,  col.  2.  —  He  from  the  saddle-bow  his  falchion 

In  the  combat  between  Franciis  and  Phouere,  Ronsard  says  — 

—  de  la  main  Icurs  coutclas  trouvcrent 
Bien  aiguisez  gut  de  Vargon  pendoyent. 

On  this  passage  the  commentator  observes,  "  I'autheur  arme 
CCS  deux  chevaliers  d  la  mode  de  nos  gendarmes  Fraw^oli,  la 
lance  en  la  main,  la  coutelace  ou  la  mace  d  I'argon,  et  Pespc  can 

Thus  Desmarests  says  of  the  troops  of  Clovis  — 

A  tons  pend  de  Vargon,  d  leur  mode  guerrierre, 
Et  la  hache  tranchante,  et  la  inasse  meurtriere. 

And  when  Clovis,  on  foot  and  without  a  weapon,  hears  the 
shrieks  of  a  woman,  he  sees  his  horse, 

Jette  fail  sur  Vargon,  et  void  luire  sa  hache. 

Lope  de  Vega  speaks  of  the  sword  being  carried  in  the  same 
manner,  when  he  describes  Don  Juan  de  Aguila  as  — 

desatando  del  argon  la  espada. 

Note  191,  p.  57,  col.  2.  — she  bared 

The  lightning  of  her  sword. 

Desnudo  el  rayo  de  la  ardiente  espada. 

Jemsalen  Conquistada. 

Note   192,  p.  57,  col.  2.  —  The  sword  of  Talbot. 

Talbot's  sword,  says  Camden,  was  found  in  the  river  of  Dor- 
don,  and  sold  by  a  peasant  to  an  armorer  of  Bouideaux,  witli 
this  incription, 

Sum  Talboti,  M.  UII.  C.  XLTII 

Pro  vinccre  ininiicos  mcos. 

But  pardon  the  Latin,  for  it  was  not  his,  but  his  cami)ing 
chaplain's.  —  A  sword  with  bad  Latin  upon  it,  but  good  steel 
«ithin  it,  says  Fuller. 

It  was  not  uncommon  to  bear  a  motto  upon  the  sword. 
Lope  de  Vega  describes  that  of  Aguilar  as  bearing  inlaid  in 
gold,  a  verse  of  the  psalms.     It  was,  he  says, 

Mas  famo.ia  quefue  de  hombre  ccnida, 
Para  ocasiones  del  honor  guardada, 

Y  en  ultima  drfcnsa  de  la  vida, 
Y  dcsde  cuya  guamicion  dorada 

Hasta  la  punta  la  canal  brunida 

Tenia  escrito  de  David  un  verso. 
J^ietadv  dc  oro  en  el  azcro  terso. 

Jerasalen  Conquistada. 

Note  193,  p.  57,  eol.  2.  —  Fastolffe,  all  fierce  and  haughty  as 
he  was. 

In  ihe  Paston  letters,  published  by  Mr.  Fenn,  Fiistolffe  ap- 
pears in  a  very  unfavorable  light.  Henry  Windsor  writes 
thus  of  him,  "  bit  is  not  unknown  that  cruclle  and  venglblc  he 
huth  hyn  ever,  and  for  the  most  part  witli  oute  pite  and  mercy 
I  can  no  more,  but  rude  et  corripc  eum,  for  truly  he  cannot 
bryng  about  his  maticrs  in  this  word  (world)  for  the  word  is 
not  lor  him.  I  suppose  it  wolnot  chaunge  yett  be  likelencs, 
but  i  beseche  you  sir  help  not  to  amend  hym  onely,  but  every 
other  man  yf  ye  kno  any  mo  mysse  disposed." 

The  order  of  the  garter  was  taken  from  Fastolffe  for  liis 
conduct  at  Patay.  He  suffered  a  more  material  loss  in  the 
money  ho  expended  in  the  service  of  the  state.  In  1455, 
4083/.  15.  7.  were  due  to  him  for  costs  and  charges  durii>g  his 
services  in  France,  "  whereof  the  sayd  Fastolffe  bath  had 
nouther  payement  nor  assignation."     So  be  complains. 

Note  194,  p.  57,  col.  2.  —  Battlc-aze. 

In  a  battle  between  the  Burgundians  and  Dauphinois  near 
Abbeville  (1421)  Monstrellet  especially  notices  the  conduct 
of  John  Villain,  who  had  that  day  been  made  a  knight.  He 
was  a  nobleman  from  Flanders,  very  tall,  and  of  great  bodily 
strength,  and  was  mounted  on  a  good  horse,  holding  a  battk- 
aie  in  both  hands  Thus  he  puslied  into  the  thickest  part  of 
the  battle,  and  throwing  the  bridle  on  his  horse's  neck,  gave 
such  blows  on  all  sides  with  his  battle-axe,  that  whoever  was 
struck  was  instantly  unhorsed  and  wounded  past  recovery. 
In  this  way  he  met  Poton  de  Xaintrailles,  who,  after  Ihe 
battle  was  over,  declared  the  wonders  he  did,  and  that  he  got 
out  of  his  reach  as  fast  as  he  could.  —  Vol.  v.  p.  294 

Note  195,  p.  58,  col.  1. —  The  b uclder,  now  splinter' d  with  many 

a  stroke. 

L'ecu  de^  chevaliers  ctait  ordinairemenl  un  bouclier  de  forme 
d  pcu  pris  triangulaire,  large  par  le  haul  pour  couvrir  le  corps, 
et  se  terminant  en  pointe  par  le  bas,  afin  d'Stre  mains  lourd.  On 
les  faisait  de  bois  qu'on  recouvrait  avec  du  cuir  bouilli,  avcc  dcs 
nerfs  ou  autrcs  viatieres  dares,  mais  jamais  de  fer  ou  d'acier. 
Seulement  il  ctait  pcrmis,  pour  les  empScher  d'etre  coupes  trap 
aiscmcnt  par  les  epics,  d'y  mcltre  un  cercle  d'or,  d'argent,  ou 
defer,  qui  les  entourat.  —  Le  Orand. 

Note  19G,  p.  53,  col.  2.  —  Threw  o'er  the  slaughtered  chief  his 
blazon'd  coat. 

This  fact  is  mentioned  in  Andrews's  History  of  England. 
I  have  merely  ver>iified  the  original  expressions.  "  The  herald 
of  Talbot  sought  out  his  body  among  the  slain.  '  Alas,  my 
lord,  and  is  it  you  !  I  pray  God  pardon  you  all  your  misdoings. 
I  have  been  your  officer  of  arms  forty  years  and  more  :  it  is 
time  that  I  should  surrender  to  you  the  ensigns  of  my  office.' 
Thus  saying,  with  the  tears  gushing  from  his  eyes,  he  threw 
his  coat  of  arms  over  the  corpse,  thus  performing  one  of  the 
ancient  rites  of  sepulture." 

Note  197,  p.  59,  col.  1.  —  Pour'd  on  the  monarch's  head  the 
mystic  oil. 

"  The  Frenchmen  wonderfully  reverence  this  oyle  ;  and  at 
the  coronation  of  their  kings,  fetch  it  from  the  church  where 
it  is  kepi,  witli  great  solemnity.  For  it  is  brought  (saith 
Sleiden  in  his  Conmientarics)  by  the  prior  sitting  on  a  white 
ambling  palfrey,  and  attended  by  bis  monkes  ;  the  archbishop 
of  the  town  (Uheims)  and  such  bishops  as  are  present,  going 
to  the  church  door  to  meet  it,  and  leaving  for  it  with  the 
prior  some  gage,  and  the  king,  when  it  is  by  the  urcbbisbop 
brought  to  the  altar,  bowing  himself  before  it  with  great 
reverence." —  Peter  Heylyn. 



^TJt  Tiuion  of  tf^t  J^aitr  of  erUans* 

In  the  first  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc  this  Vision 
formed  the  ninth  book,  allegorical  machinery 
having  been  introduced  throughout  tlie  poem 
as  originally  written.  All  that  remained  of 
such  machinery  expunged  in  the  second 
edition,  and  the  Vision  was  then  struck  out,  as 
no  longer  according  with  the  general  design. 


Orleans  was  hush'd  in  sleep.     Stretch'd  on  her 

The  delegated  Maiden  lay;  with  toil 
Exhausted,  and  sore  anguish,  soon  she  closed 
Her  heavy  eyelids ;  not  reposing  then, 
For  busy  phantasy  in  other  scenes 
Awaken'd  :  whether  that  superior  powers, 
By  Vv'ise  permission,  prompt  the  midnight  dream. 
Instructing  best  the  passive  faculty ; ' 
Or  that  the  soul,  escaped  its  fleshly  clog, 
Flies  free,  and  soars  amid  the  invisible  world, 
And  all  things  are  that  seem" 

Along  a  moor. 
Barren,  and  wide,  and  drear,  and  desolate. 
She  roam'd,  a  wanderer  through  the  clieerless  night. 
Far  through  the  silence  of  the  unbroken  plain 
The  bittern's  boom  was  heard ;  hoarse,  heavy,  deep. 
It  made  accordant  music  to  the  scene. 
Black  clouds,  driven  fast  before  the  stormy  wind, 
Swept  shadowing;  through  their  broken  folds  the 

Struggled  at  times  with  transitory  ra}'. 
And  made  the  moving  darkness  visible. 
And  now  arrived  beside  a  fenny  lake 
She  stands,  amid  whose  stagnate  waters,  hoarse 
The  long  reeds  rustled  to  the  gale  of  night. 
A  time-worn  bark  receives  the  Maid,  impell'd 
By  powers  unseen ;  then  did  the  moon  display 
Where  through  the  crazy  vessel's  yawning  side 
The  muddy  waters  oozed.     A  Woman  guides. 
And  spreads  the  sail  before  tlie  wind,  which  moan'd 
As  melancholy  mournful  to  her  ear, 
As  ever  by  a  dungeon'd  wretch  was  heard 
Howling  at  evening  round  his  prison  towers. 
Wan  was  the  pilot's  countenance,  her  eyes 
Hollow,  and  her  sunk  cheeks  were  furrow'd  deep, 
Channell'd  by  tears  ;  a  few  gray  locks  hung  down 
Beneath  her  hood ;  and  through  the  Maiden's  veins 
Chill  crept  the  blood,  when,  as  the  night-breeze 

Lifting  her  tatter'd  mantle,  coil'd  around 
She  saw  a  serpent  gnawing  at  her  heart. 

The  plumeless  bats  with  short,  shrill  note  flit  by. 
And  the  night-raven's  scream  came  fitfully. 
Borne  on  the  hollow  blast.     Eager  the  Maid 
Look'd  to  the  shore,  and  now  upon  the  bank 
Leapt,  joyful  to  escape,  yet  trembling  still 
In  recollection. 

There,  a  mouldering  pile 
Stretch'd  its  wide  ruins,  o'er  the  plain  below 
Casting  a  gloomy  shade,  save  where  the  moon 
Shone  through  its  fretted  windows  :  the  dark  yew, 
Witliering  with  age,  branch'd  there  its  naked  roots, 
And  there  the  melancholy  cypress  rear'd 
Its  head  ;  the  earth  was  heaved  with  many  a  mound, 
And  here  and  tliere  a  half-demolish'd  tomb. 

And  now,  amid  the  ruin's  darkest  shade. 
The  Virgin's  eye  beheld  where  pale  blue  flames 
Rose  wavering,  now  just  gleaming  from  the  earth, 
And  now  in  darkness  drown'd.     An  aged  man 
Sate  near,  seated  on  what  in  long-past  days 
Had  been  some  sculptured  monument,  now  fallen 
And  half-obscured  by  moss,  and  gather'd  heaps 
Ofwither'd  yew-leaves  and  earth-mouldering  bones. 
His  eye  was  large  and  rayless,  and  fix'd  full 
Upon  the  Maid  ;  the  tomb-fires  on  his  face 
Shed  a  blue  light;  his  face  was  of  the  hue 
Of  death;  his  limbs  were  mantled  in  a  shroud. 
Then  with  a  deep  heart- terrifying  voice, 
Exclaim'dthe  spectre  :  "  Welcome  to  these  realms, 
These  regions  of  Despair,  O  thou  whose  steps 
Sorrow  hath  guided  to  my  sad  abodes  ! 
Welcome  to  my  drear  empire,  to  this  gloom 
Eternal,  to  this  everlasting  night, 
Where  never  morning  darts  the  enlivening  ray. 
Where  never  shines  the  sun,  but  all  is  dark. 
Dark  as  the  bosom  of  their  gloomy  King." 

So  saying,  he  arose,  and  drawing  on, 
Her  to  the  abbey's  inner  ruin  led, 
Resisting  not  liis  guidance.     Through  the  roof 
Qnce  fretted  and  emblazed,  but  broken  now 
In  part,  elsewhere  all  open  to  the  sky. 
The  moon-beams  enter'd,  checker'd  here,  and  here 
With  unimpeded  light.     The  ivy  twined 
R,ound  the  dismantled  columns;  imaged  forms 
Of  saints  and  warlike  chiefs,  moss-canker'd  now 
And  mutilate,  lay  strown  upon  the  ground. 
With  crumbled  fragments,  crucifixes  fallen, 
And  rusted  trophies.     Meantime  overhead 
Roar'd  the  loud  blast,  and  from  the  tower  the  ow 
Scream'd  as  the  tempest  shook  her  secret  nest. 
He,  silent,  led  her  on,  and  often  paused, 
And  pointed,  that  her  eye  might  contemplate 
At  leisure  the  drear  scene. 

He  draoror'd  her  on 

BOOK    I. 



Tliroujrli  a  low  iron  door,  down  brokon  stairs; 
Tlii'ii  a  cold  horror  through  the  Maiden's  I'ranie 
Crept,  for  she  stood  amid  a  vault,  and  saw, 
By  the  sepulchral  lamp's  dim,  glarinif  lif^ht. 
The  fragments  of  the  dead. 

"  Look  here  !  "  he  cried, 
"  Damsel,  look  here  !  survey  tliis  house  of  death  ; 
O,  soon  to  tenant  it ;  soon  to  increase 
These  trophies  of  mortality  —  for  hence 
Is  no  return.     Gaze  here  ;  behold  this  skull. 
These  eyeless  sockets,  and  these  unflesh'd  jaws. 
That  with  tlieir  ghastly  grinning  seem  to  mock 
Tliy  perishable  cluinns ;  for  thus  thy  check 
Mustmoulder.   Childof  grief !  shrinks  not  thy  soul. 
Viewing  these  horrors.-  trembles  not  thy  heart 
At  the  dread  thought  that  here  its  life's-blood  soon 
Shall  stagnate,  and  the  rinely-fibred  frame. 
Now  warm  in  life  and  feeling,  mingle  soon 
With  the  cold -clod.'  thing  horrible  to  think, — 
Yet  in  thought  only,  for  reality 
Is  none  of  suffering  here;  here  all  is  peace  ; 
No  nerve  will  throb  to  anguish  in  the  grave. 
Dreadful  it  is  to  think  of  losing  life, 
Uut  having  lost,  knowledge  of  loss  is  not. 
Therefore  no  ill.     Oh,  wherefore  then  delay 
To  end  all  ills  at  once  .'  " 

So  spake  Despair. 
The  vaulted  roof  echoed  his  hollow  voice, 
And  all  again  was  silence.     Quick  her  heart 
Panted.     He  placed  a  dagger  in  her  hand. 
And  cried  again,  "  (31i,  wliereforc  then  delay  1 
One  blow,  and  rest  forever  !  "     On  the  fiend 
Dark  scowl'd  the  Virgin  with  indignant  eye, 
And  threw  the  dagger  down.     He  next  his  heart 
Replaced  the  murderous  steel,  and  drew  the  Maid 
Along  the  downward  vault. 

The  damp  earth  gave 
A  dim  sound  as  they  pass'd  :  the  tainted  air 
Was  cold,  and  heavy  with  unwholesome  dews. 
"  Behold  !  "  the  fiend  exclami'd,  "  how  loathsomely 
The  fleshly  remnant  of  mortality 
Moulders  to  clajM  "  then  fixing  his  broad  eye 
Full  on  her  face,  he  pointed  where  a  corpse 
Lay  livid ;  she  beheld  with  horrent  look 
The  spectacle  abhorr'd  by  living  man. 

"  Look  here  !  "  Despair  pursued ; "  this  loathsome 
Was  once  as  lovely,  and  as  full  of  life 
As,  Damsel,  thou  art  now.     Those  deep-sunk  eyes 
Once  beam'd  the  mild  light  of  intelligence, 
And  where  thou  seest  the  pamper'd  fiesh-worm  trail. 
Once  the  white  bosom  heaved.  She  fondly  thouglit 
That  at  the  hallow 'd  altar,  soon  the  priest 
Should  bless  her  coming  union,  and  the  torch 
Its  joyful  lustre  o'er  the  hall  of  joy. 
Cast  on  her  nuptial  evening  :  earth  to  earth 
That  priest  consign'd  her,  for  her  lover  went 
By  glory  lured  to  war,  and  perish'd  tiiere  ; 
Nor  she  endured  to  live.     Ila  I  fades  thy  cheek  .' 
Dost  tiiou  then,  Maiden,  tremble  at  the  tale  ■' 
Look  here  I  behold  the  youthful  paramour  I 
The  self-devoted  hero  I   " 

Fearfully  [face 

The  Maid  look'd  down,  and  saw  the  well-known 

Of  Theodori'.     In  thoughts  unsi)eakal)le. 
Convulsed  with  liorror,  o'er  her  face  she  clasp'd 
Her  cold,  damp  hands.  "  Shrink  not,"  the  phantom 

cried ; 
"  Gaze  on  !  "  and  unrelentingly  he  grasp'd 
Her  fjuivering  arm  :  "  this  lifeless,  mouldering  clay. 
As  well  lliou  know'st,  was  warm  with  all  the  glow 
Of  youth  and  love  ;  this  is  the  hand  that  clefl 
Proud  Salisbury's  crest,  now  motionless  in  death, 
Unable  to  protect  the  ravaged  frame 
From  the  foul  ofi'spring  of  mortality 
Tiiatfeod  on  heroes.  Though  long  years  were  thine, 
Yet  never  more  would  life  reanimate 
This  slaughter'd  youth ;  slaugliter'd  for  thee  !  for 

Didst  lead  him  to  the  battle  from  his  home, 
Where  else  he  had  survived  to  good  old  age  : 
In  thy  defence  he  died:  strike  then  I  destroy 
Remorse  with  life." 

The  Maid  stood  motionless. 
And,  wistloss  what  she  did,  with  trembling  hand 
Received  the  dagger.     Starting  then,  she  cried, 
"  Avaunt,  Despair!   Eternal  Wisdom  deals 
Or  peace  to  man,  or  misery,  for  his  good 
Alike  design'd  ;  and  shall  the  creature  cry, 
'Why  hast  thou  done  this  .'' '  and  with  impious  pride 
Destroy  the  life  God  gave.'" 

The  fiend  rejoin'd, 
"  And  thou  dost  deem  it  impious  to  destroy 
The  life  God  gave .'     What,  Maiden,  is  the  lot 
Assign'd  to  mortal  man  ?  born  but  to  drag. 
Through  life's  long  jjilgrimage,  the  wearying  load 
Of  being ;  care-corroded  at  the  heart ; 
Assail'd  by  all  the  numerous  train  of  ills 
That  flesh  inherits  ;  till  at  length  worn  out. 
This  is  his  consummation  !  —  Think  again  I 
What,  Maiden,  canst  thou  hope  from  lengthen'd  life. 
But  lengthen'd  sorrow  .'     If  protracted  long. 
Till  on  the  bed  of  death  thy  feeble  limbs 
Stretch  out  their  languid  length,  oh,  tliink  what 

What  agonizing  feelings,  in  that  hour. 
Assail  tiie  sinking  heart !  slow  beats  the  pulse. 
Dim  grows  the  eye,  and  clammy  drops  bedew 
The  shuddering  frame  ;  then  in  its  mightiest  force, 
Mightiest  in  impotence,  the  love  of  life 
Seizes  the  throbbing  heart ;  the  faltering  lips 
Pour  out  the  impious  prayer  that  fain  would  change 
Tlie  Unchangeable's  decree  ;  surrounding  friends 
Sob  round  the  sufferer,  wet  his  cheek  with  tears, 
And  all  he  loved  in  life  imbitters  death. 

"  Such,  Maiden,  are   the   pangs  that  wait  the 
Of  easiest  dissolution  !  yet  weak  man 
Resolves,  in  timid  piety,  to  live; 
And  veiling  Fear  in  Superstition's  garb. 
He  calls  her  Resignation  ! 

"  Coward  wretch ! 
Fond  coward,  thus  to  make  his  reason  war 
Against  liis  reason  !     Insect  as  he  is, 
This  sport  of  chance,  tiiis  being  of  a  day, 
Whose  whole  existence  the  next  cloud  may  blast. 
Believes  himself  the  care  of  heavenly  powers; 
That  God  regards  man,  miserable  man, 



BOOK   I. 

And  preaching  thus  of  power  and  providence, 
Will  crush  the  reptile  that  may  cross  his  path ! 

"  Fool  that  thou  art  I  the  Being  that  permits 
Existence,  gives  to  man  the  worthless  boon  ; 
A  goodly  gift  to  those  who,  fortune-blest, 
Bask  in  the  sunshine  of  prosperity. 
And  such  do  well  to  keep  it.     But  to  one 
Sick  at  the  heart  with  misery,  and  sore 
With  many  a  hard,  unuierited  affliction, 
It  is  a  hair  that  chains  to  wretchedness 
The  slave  who  dares  not  burst  it ! 

"  Thinkest  thou. 
The  parent,  if  his  child  should  unrecall'd 
Return  and  fall  upon  his  neck,  and  cry, 
'  Oh !  the  wide  world  is  comfortless,  and  full 
Of  fleeting  joys  and  heart-consuming  cares; 
I  can  be  only  happy  in  my  home 
With  thee  —  my  friend! — my  father!'  Thinkest 

That  he  would  thrust  him  as  an  outcast  forth .' 
Oh !  he  would  clasp  the  truant  to  his  heart, 
And  love  the  trespass." 

Whilst  he  spake,  his  eye 
Dwelt  on  the  Maiden's  cheek,  and  read  her  soul 
Struo-gling  within.     In  trembling  doubt  she  stood, 
Even  as  a  wretch,  whose  famish'd  entrails  crave 
Supply,  before  him  sees  the  poison'd  food 
In  greedy  horror. 

Yet,  not  silent  long, 
"Eloquent  tempter,  cease!  "  the  Maiden  cried; 
"  What  though  affliction  be  my  portion  here, 
Thinkest  thou  I  do  not  feel  high  thoughts  of  joy, 
Of  heart-ennobling  joy,  when  I  look  back 
Upon  a  life  of  duty  well  perform'd, 
Then  lift  mine  eyes  to  heaven,  and  there  in  faith 
Know  my  reward?  —  I  grant,  were  this  life  all. 
Was  there  no  morning  to  the  tomb's  long  night. 
If  man  did  mingle  with  the  senseless  clod. 
Himself  as  senseless,  then  wert  thou  indeed 
A  wise  and  friendly  comforter  !  —  But,  fiend. 
There  is  a  morning  to  the  tomb's  long  night, 
A  dawn  of  glory,  a  reward  in  heaven. 
He  shall  not  gain  who  never  merited. 
If  thou  didst  know  the  worth  of  one  good  deed 
In  life's  last  hour,  thou  wouldst  not  bid  me  lose 
The  precious  privilege,  while  life  endures 
To  do  my  Father's  will.     A  mighty  task 
Is  mine,  —  a  glorious  call.     France  looks  to  me 
For  her  deliverance. 

"  Maiden,  thou  hast  done 
Thy  mission  here,"  the  unbaffled  fiend  replied  : 
"  The  foes  are  fled  from  Orleans  :  thou,  perchance 
Exulting  in  the  pride  of  victory, 
Forgettest  him  who  perish'd  :  yet  albeit 
Thy  harden'd  heart  forget  the  gallant  youth, 
That  hour  allotted  canst  thou  not  escape, 
That  dreadful  hour,  when  contumely  and  shame 
Shall  sojourn  in  thy  dungeon.     Wretched  Maid  ! 
Destined  to  drain  the  cup  of  bitterness, 
Even  to  its  dregs,  —  England's  inhuman  chiefs 
Shall  scoff"  thy  sorrows,  blacken  thy  pure  fame. 
Wit-wanton  it  with  lewd  barbarity. 
And  force  such  burning  blushes  to  the  cheek 
Of  virgin  modesty,  that  thou  shalt  wish 

The  earth  might  cover  thee.     In  that  last  liour. 
When  thy  bruis'd  breast  shall  lieave  beneath  the 

That  link  thee  to  the  stake,  a  spectacle 
For  the  brute  multitude,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Mockery  more  painful  than  tlie  circling  flames 
Which  then  consume  thee  ;  wilt  thou  not  in  vain 
Then  wish  my  friendly  aid  .-'  then  wish  thine  ear 
Had  drank  my  words  of  comfort?  that  thy  hand 
Had  grasp' d  the  dagger,  and  in  death  preserved 
Insulted  modesty  ? " 

Her  glowing  cheek 
Blush'd  crimson ;  her  wide  eye  on  vacancy 
Was  fix'd  ;  her  breath  short  panted.  The  cold  fiend 
Grasping  her  hand,  exclaim'd,  "Too  timid  Maid, 
So  long  repugnant  to  the  healing  aid 
My  friendship  proft'ers,  now  shalt  thou  behold 
The  allotted  length  of  life." 

He  stamp'd  the  earth 
And  dracro-ing  a  huge  coflin  as  his  car, 
Two  Gouls  came  on,  of  form  more  fearful-foul 
Than  ever  palsied  in  her  wildest  dream 
Hag-ridden  Superstition.     Then  Despair 
Seized  on  the  Maid  whose  curdling  blood  stood  still 
And  placed  her  in  the  seat,  and  on  they  pass'd 
Adown  the  deep  descent.     A  meteor  light 
Shot  from  the  demons,  as  they  dragged  along 
The  unwelcome  load,  and  mark'd  their  brethren 

On  carcasses. 

Below,  the  vault  dilates 
Its  ample  bulk.     "  Look  here  !  "  —  Despair  addrest 
The  shuddering  Virgin ;  "  see  the  dome  of  Death !  " 
It  was  a  spacious  cavern,  hewn  amid 
The  entrails  of  the  earth,  as  though  to  form 
A  grave  for  all  mankind  :  no  eye  could  reach 
Its  distant  bounds.     There,  throned  in  darkness, 

The  unseen  power  of  Death. 

Here  stopt  the  Gouls, 
Reaching  the  destined  spot.     The  fiend  stept  out. 
And  from  the  coffin  as  he  led  the  Maid, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Where  mortal  never  stood  before. 
Thou  standest:  look  around  this  boundless  vault; 
Observe  the  dole  that  Nature  deals  to  man, 
And  learn  to  know  thy  friend." 

She  answer'd  not. 
Observing  where  the  Fates  their  several  tasks 
Plied  ceaseless.  "Mark  how  long  the  shortest  web 
Allow'd  to  man  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  observe  how  soon, 
Twined  round  yon  never-resting  wheel,  they  change 
Their  snowy  hue,  darkening  through  many  a  shade, 
Till  Atropos  relentless  shuts  the  shears." 

Too  true  he  spake,  for  of  the  countless  threads. 
Drawn  from  the  heap,  as  white  as  unsunn'd  snow. 
Or  as  the  spotless  lily  of  the  vale. 
Was  never  one  beyond  the  little  span 
Of  infancy  untainted  ;  few  there  were 
But  lightly  tinged  :  more  of  deep  crimson  hue, 
Or  deeper  sable  dyed.^    Two  Genii  stood. 
Still  as  the  web  of  being  was  drawn  forth. 
Sprinkling  their  powerful  drops.     From  ebon  urn. 
The  one  unsparing  dash'd  the  bitter  drops 
Of  woe  ;  and  as  he  dash'd,  his  dark-brown  brow 

BOOK    II. 



Rolax'd  to  a  hard  smile.     Tlio  milder  form 

Shed  les8  profusely  there  his  lesser  store ; 

Sometimes  with  tears  increasing  the  scant  boon, 

Compassionating  man  ;  and  happy  he 

Who  on  liis  thread  those  precious  tears  receives ; 

If  it  be  happiness  to  have  the  pulse 

That  tiirobs  with  pity,  and  in  such  a  world 

Of  wretchedness,  the  generous  heart  that  aches 

With  anguish  at  the  sight  of  human  woe. 

To  her  the  fiend,  well  hoping  now  success, 
"  This  is  thy  thread  ;  observe  how  short  the  span ; 
And  little  doth  tlie  evil  Genius  spare 
His  bitter  tincture  there."     The  Maiden  saw 
Calinlv.  "Now  gaze  I  "the  tempter  fiend  exclaim'd, 
And  placed  again  the  poniard  in  her  hand, 
For  Superstition,  with  a  burning  torch, 
Approacird  tlie  loom.     "  This,  Damsel,  is  thy  fate  ! 
The  hour  draws  on  —  now  strike  the  dagger  home  ! 
Strike  now,  and  be  at  rest !  " 

The  Maid  replied, 
"  Or  to  prevent  or  change  the  will  of  Heaven, 
Impious  1  strive  not :  let  that  will  be  done  !  " 


She  spake,  and  lo  I  celestial  radiance  beam'd 
Amid  the  air,  such  odors  wafting  now 
As  erst  came  blended  with  tlie  evening  gale. 
From  Eden's  bowers  of  bliss.     An  angel  form 
Stood  by  the  Maid ;  his  wings,  ethereal  white, 
Flash'd  like  the  diamond  in  the  noon-tide  sun. 
Dazzling  her  mortal  eye  :  all  else  appear'd 
Her  Theodore. 

Amazed  she  saw :  the  fiend 
Was  fled,  and  on  her  ear  the  well-known  voice 
Sounded,  tliough  now  more  musically  sweet 
Than  ever  yet  had  tlirill'd  her  soul  attuned. 
When  eloquent  affection  fondly  told 
The  day-dreams  of  delight. 

"  Beloved  Maid ! 
Lo  1   I  am  with  thee,  still  thy  Theodore  ! 
Hearts  in  the  holy  bands  of  love  combined, 
Death  has  no  power  to  sever.     Thou  art  mine  ! 
A  little  while  and  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me. 
In  scenes  where  sorrow  is  not.     Cheerily 
Tread  thou  the  path  that  leads  thee  to  the  grave. 
Rough  though  it  be  and  painful,  for  the  grave 
Is  but  the  threshold  of  eternity. 

"Favor'd  of  Heaven,  to  thee  is  given  to  view 
These  secret  realms.     The  bottom  of  the  abyss 
Thou  treadest,  Maiden.     Here  the  dungeons  are 
Where  bad  men  learn  repentance.     Souls  diseased 
Must  have  their  remedy ;  and  where  disease 
Is  rooted  deep,  the  remedy  is  long 
Perforce,  and  painful." 

Thus  the  spirit  spake. 
And  led  the  Maid  along  a  narrow  path. 
Dark  gleaming  to  the  light  of  far-off  flames, 
More  dread  than  darkness.     Soon  the  distant  sound 
Of  clanking  anvils,  and  the  lengthen'd  breath 

Provoking  fire  are  heard;  and  now  they  reach 
A  wide  e.xpanded  den  where  all  arovind 
Tremendous  furnaces,  with  hellish  blaze. 
Were  burning.     At  the  heaving  bellows  stood 
The  meagre  form  of  Care  ;  and  as  he  blew 
To  augment  the  fire,  the  fire  augmented  scorch'd 
His  wretched  limbs;  sleepless  forever  thus 
He  toil'd  and  loil'd,  of  toil  no  end  to  know 
But  endless  toil  and  never-ending  woe. 

An  aged  man  went  round  the  infernal  vault. 
Urging  his  workmen  to  their  ceaseless  task  ; 
White  were  his  locks,  as  is  the  wintry  snow 
On  hoar  Plinlimmon's  head.     A  golden  staff 
Ilis  stei).s  supported  :  powerful  talisman. 
Which  whoso  feels  shall  never  feel  again 
The  tear  of  pity,  or  the  tiirob  of  love. 
Touch'd  but  by  this,  the  massy  gates  give  way, 
The  buttress  trembles,  and  the  guarded  wall. 
Guarded  in  vain,  submits.     Him  heathens  erst 
Had  deified,  and  bowed  the  suppliant  knee 
To  Plutus.     Nor  are  now  his  votaries  few. 
Even  though  our  blessed  Savior  iiatli  himself 
Told  us,  that  easier  through  the  needle's  eye 
Shall  the  huge  camel  pass,'*  than  the  rich  man 
Enter  the  gates  of  heaven.     "Ye  cannot  serve 
Your  God  and  worship  Mammon." 

"  Mission'd  Maid  !  " 
So  spake  the  spirit,  "  know  that  these,  whose  hands 
Round  each  white  furnace  j)ly  the  unceasing  toil, 
Were  Mammon's  slaves  on  earth.     They  did  not 

To  wring  from  poverty  the  hard-earn'd  mite  ; 
They  robb'd  the  orphan's  pittance ;  they  could  see 
Want's  asking  eye  unmoved;  and  therefore  these, 
Ranged  round  the  furnace,  still  must  persevere 
In  Mammon's  service,  scorch'd  by  these  fierce  fires, 
Nor  seldom  by  the  overboiling  ore 
Caught;  yet  retaining  still,  to  punishment 
Converted  here,  their  old  besetting  sin. 
Often  impatiently  to  quench  their  thirst 
Unquenchable,  large  draughts  of  molten  gold  * 
They  drink  insatiate,  still  with  pain  renew'd. 
Pain  to  destroy." 

So  saying,  her  he  led 
Forth  from  the  dreadful  cavern  to  a  cell 
Brilliant  with  gem-born  light.     The  rugged  walls 
Part  gleam'd  with  gold,  and  part  with  silver  ore 
In  milder  radiance  shone.     The  carbuncle 
There  its  strong  lustre  like  the  flamy  sun 
Shot  forth  irradiate ;  from  the  earth  beneath. 
And  from  the  roof  there  stream'd  a  diamond  light 
Rubies  and  amethysts  their  glows  commix'd 
With  the  gay  topaz,  and  the  softer  ray- 
Shot  from  the  sapphire,  and  the  emerald's  nue. 
And  bright  pyropus. 

There,  on  golden  seats, 
A  numerous,  sullen,  melancholy  train 
Sat  silent.     "Maiden,  these,"  said  Theodore, 
"Are  they  who  let  the  love  of  wealth  absorb 
All  other  passions  ;  in  their  souls  that  vice 
Struck  deeply-rooted,  like  the  poison-tree 
That  with  its  shade  spreads  barrenness  around. 
These,  Maid  !  were  men  by  no  atrocious  crime 
Blacken'd,  no  fraud,  nor  ruflian  violence  ; 




Men  of  fair  dealing,  and  respectable 
On  earth,  but  such  as  only  i'or  themselves 
Heap'd  uj)  their  treasures,  deeming  all  their  wealth 
Their  own,  and  given  to  them,  by  partial  Heaven, 
To  bless  them  only  :  therefore  here  they  sit, 
Possessd  of  gold  enough,  and  by  no  pain 
Tormented,  save  the  knowledge  of  the  bliss 
They  lost,  and  vain  repentance.     Here  they  dwell, 
Loathing  these  useless  treasures,  till  the  hour 
Of  general  restitution." 

Thence  they  past, 
And  now  arriv'd  at  such  a  gorgeous  dome, 
As  even  the  pomp  of  Eastern  opulence 
Could  never  equal :  wandered  through  its  halls 
A  numerous  train ;  some  with  the  red-swollen  eye 
Of  riot,  and  intemperance-bloated  cheek ; 
Some  pale  and  nerveless,  and  with  feeble  step. 
And  eyes  lack-lustre. 

"  Maiden  !  "  said  her  guide. 
These  are  the  wretched  slaves  of  Appetite, 
Curst  with  tlieir  wish  cnjoy'd.     The  epicure 
Here  pampers  his  foul  frame,  till  the  pall'd  sense 
Loathes  at  the  banquet ;  the  voluptuous  here 
Plunge  in  the  tempting  torrent  of  delight. 
And  sink  in  misery.     All  they  wish'd  on  earth 
Possessing  here,  whom  have  they  to  accuse 
But  their  own  folly,  for  the  lot  they  chose .' 
Yet,  for  that  these  injured  themselves  alone. 
They  to  the  house  of  Penitence  may  hie. 
And,  by  a  long  and  painful  regimen. 
To  wearied  Nature  her  exhausted  powers 
Restore,  till  they  shall  learn  to  form  the  wish 
Of  wisdom,  and  Almighty  Goodness  grants 
That  prize  to  him  who  seeks  it." 

Whilst  he  spake, 
The  board  is  spread.     With  bloated  paunch,  and 

Fat-swollen,  and  legs  whose  monstrous  size  dis- 
The  human  form  divine,  their  caterer, 
Hight  Gluttony,  set  forth  the  smoking  feast. 
And  by  his  side  came  on  a  brother  form, 
With  fiery  cheek  of  purple  hue,  and  red 
And  scurfy-while,  mix'd  motley ;  his  gross  bulk. 
Like  some  huge  hogshead  shapen'd,  as  applied. 
Him  liad  antiquity  with  mystic  rites 
Adored ;  to  him  the  sons  of  Greece,  and  thine, 
Imperial  Rome,  on  many  an  altar  pour'd 
The  victim  blood,  with  god-like  titles  graced, 
Bacchus,  or  Dionusus ;  son  of  Jove, 
Deem'd  falsely,  for  from  Folly's  idiot  form 
He  sprung,  what  time  Madness,  with  furious  hand, 
Seized  on  the  laughing  female.     At  one  birtli 
She  brought  the  brethren,  menial  here  below, 
Though  sovereigns  upon  earth,  where  oft  they  hold 
High  revels.     'Mid  the  monastery's  gloom. 
Thy  palace.  Gluttony,  and  oft  to  thee 
The  sacrifice  is  spread,  when  the  grave  voice 
Episcopal  proclaims  approaching  day 
Of  visitation ;  or  church- wardens  meet 
To  save  the  wretched  many  from  the  gripe 
Of  poverty ;  or  'mid  thy  ample  halls 
Of  London,  mighty  Mayor  !  rich  Aldermen, 
Of  coming  feast  hold  converse. 


For  though  allied  in  nature  as  in  blood, 

They  hold  divided  sway,  his  brother  lifts 

His  spongy  sceptre.     In  the  noble  domes 

Of  princes,  and  state-wearied  ministers,         [mind 

Maddening  he  reigns;   and  when  the  affrighted 

Casts  o'er  a  long  career  of  guilt  and  blood 

Its  eye  reluctant,  then  his  aid  is  sought 

To  lull  the  worm  of  conscience  to  repose. 

He  too  the  halls  of  country  squires  frequents ; 

But  chiefly  loves  the  learned  gloom  that  shades 

Thy  offspring  Rhedycina,  and  thy  walls, 

Granta  !  nightly  libations  there  to  him 

Profuse  are  pour'd,  till  from  the  dizzy  brain 

Triangles,  circles,  parallelograms. 

Moods,  tenses,  dialects,  and  demigods. 

And  logic  and  theology,  are  swept 

By  the  red  deluge. 

Unmolested  there 
He  revels ;  till  the  general  feast  comes  round, 
The  sacrifice  septennial,  when  the  sons 
Of  England  meet,  with  watchful  care,  to  choose 
Their  delegates,  wise,  independent  men, 
Unbribing  and  unbribed,  and  chosen  to  guard 
Their  rights  and  charters  from  the  encroaching 

Of  greedy  power ;  then  all  the  joyful  land 
Join  in  his  sacrifices,  so  inspired 
To  make  the  important  choice. 

The  observing  Maid 
Address'd  her  guide  :  "These,Theodore,thousay'st 
Arc  men,  who,  pampering  their  foul  appetites, 
Injured  themselves  alone.     But  where  are  they, 
The  worst  of  villains,  viper-like,  who  coil 
Around  deluded  woman,  so  to  sting 
The  heart  that  loves  them  ?  " 

"  Them,"  the  spirit  replied, 
"A  long  and  dreadful  punishment  awaits. 
For  when  the  prey  of  want  and  infamy. 
Lower  and  lower  still  the  victim  sinks, 
Even  to  the  depth  of  shame,  not  one  lewd  word, 
One  impious  imprecation  from  her  lips 
Escapes,  nay,  not  a  thought  of  evil  lurks 
In  the  polluted  mind,  that  does  not  plead 
Before  the  throne  of  Justice,  thunder-tongued. 
Against  the  foul  seducer." 

Now  they  reach'd 
The  house  of  Penitence.     Credulity 
Stood  at  the  gate,  stretching  her  eager  head 
As  though  to  listen ;  on  her  vacant  face, 
A  look  that  promised  premature  assent ; 
Tho.ugh  her  Regret  behind,  a  meagre  fiend, 
Disciplined  sorely. 

Here  they  enter'd  in, 
And  now  arrived  where,  as  in  study  tranced. 
They  saw  the  mistress  of  the  dome.     Her  face 
Spake  that  composed  severity,  that  knows 
No  angry  impulse,  no  weak  tenderness, 
Resolved  and  calm.     Before  her  lay  the  Book, 
Which  hath  the  words  of  life ;  and  as  she  read, 
Sometimes  a  tear  would  trickle  down  her  cheek. 
Though  heavenly  joy  beam'd  in  her  eye  the  while. 

Leaving  her  undisturb'd,  to  the  first  ward 
Of  this  great  lazar-house  the  Angel  led 
The  favor'd  Maid  of  Orleans.     Kneeling  down 


BOOK    II. 



On  tlie  hard  stone  which  their  bare  knees  liad  worn, 

In  sackcloth  robed,  a  imaierous  train  appear'd  : 

Hard-featured  sonic,  and  some  demurely  grave; 

Yet  such  expression  stealing  from  the  eye, 

As  tliougli,  tliat  only  naked,  all  tiie  rest 

Were  one  close-fitting  mask.     A  scoffing  fiend  — 

For  fiend  he  was,  though  wisely  serving  here  — 

Mock'd  at  his  patients,  and  did  often  strow 

Ashes  upon  them,  and  then  bid  tliem  say 

Their  prayers  aloud,  and  then  he  louder  laugh'd : 

For  these  were  hypocrites,  on  eartli  revered 

As  holy  ones,  who  did  in  public  tell 

Their  beads,  and   make   long  prayers,  and  cross 

And  call  themselves  most  miserable  sinners, 
That  so  they  might  be  deem'd  most  pious  saints; 
And  (JO  all  filtli,  and  never  let  a  smile 
Bend  tlieir  stern  muscles ;  gloomy,  sullen  men, 
IJarren  of  all  affection,  and  all  this 
To  please  their  God,  forsooth  !  And  therefore  Scorn 
Grinn'd  at  his  patients,  making  them  repeat 
Their  solemn  farce,  witii  keenest  raillery 
Tormenting ;  but  if  earnest  in  their  pra}-cr. 
They  pour'd  the  silent  sorrows  of  the  soul 
To  lieaven,  then  did  they  not  regard  his  mocks 
Which  then  came  painless,  and  Humility 
Then  rescued  them,  and  led  to  Penitence, 
That  she  might  lead  to  Heaven. 

From  thence  they  came. 
Where,  in  the  next  ward,  a  most  wretched  band 
Groan'd  underneath  the  bitter  tyranny 
Of  a  fierce  demon.     His  coarse  hair  was  red. 
Pale-gray  his  eyes,  and  bloodsliot ;  and  his  face 
Wrinkled  by  such  a  smile  as  Malice  wears 
In  ecstasy.     Well-pleased  he  went  around. 
Plunging  his  dagger  in  the  hearts  of  some, 
Or  probing  with  a  poison'd  lance  their  breasts. 
Or  placing  coals  of  fire  within  their  wounds ; 
Or  seizing  some  within  his  mighty  grasp, 
He  fix'd  them  on  a  stake,  and  tlien  drew  back 
And  laugh'd  to  see  them  writhe. 

"  These,"  said  the  spirit, 
"  Are  taught  by  Cruelty,  to  loathe  the  lives 
They  led  themselves.     Here  are  those  wicked  men 
Who  loved  to  exercise  their  tyrant  power 
On  speechless  brutes ;  bad  husbands  undergo 
A  long  purgation  here  ;  the  traffickers 
In  human  flesh  here,  too,  are  disciplined. 
Till  by  their  suffering  they  have  equall'd  all 
The  miseries  they  inflicted,  all  the  mass 
Of  wretchedness  caused  by  tiie  wars  they  waged, 
The  villages  they  burnt,  the  widows  left 
In  want,  tlie  slave  or  led  to  suicide. 
Or  murder'd  by  the  foul,  infected  air 
Of  his  close  dungeon,  or,  more  sad  than  all, 
His  virtue  lost,  his  very  soul  enslaved, 
And  driven  by  woe  to  wickedness. 

"  These  next, 
Whom  thou  beholdest  in  this  dreary  room. 
With  sullen  eyes  of  hatred  and  of  fear 
Each  on  the  other  scowling,  these  have  been 
False   friends.      Tormented    by    their   own   dark 

Here  they  dwell :  in  the  hollow  of  their  hearts 
There  is  a  worm  that  feeds,  and  though  thou  scest 

That  skilful  leech  who  willingly  would  heal 
The  ill  they  sulier,  judging  of  all  else 
By  their  own  evil  conscience,  they  suspect 
The  aid  he  vainly  proffers,  lengthening  thus 
By  vice  its  punishment." 

"  But  who  are  these," 
The  Maid  exclaim'd,  "  that  robed  in  flowing  lawn, 
And  mitred,  or  in  scarlet,  and  in  caps 
Like  cardinals,  I  see  in  every  ward, 
Performing  menial  service  at  the  beck 
Of  all  who  bid  them?" 

Theodore  replied, 
"  These  men  are  they  who  in  the  name  of  Christ 
Have  hcap'd  up  wealth,  and  arrogating  power. 
Have  made  kings  kiss  their  feet,  yet  call'd  them- 
The  servants  of  the  servants  of  the  Lord. 
They  dwelt  in  palaces,  in  purple  clothed. 
And  in  fine  linen;  therefore  are  they  here; 
And  thougii  they  would  not  minister  on  earth, 
Here  penanced  tiiey  perforce  must  minister  : 
Did  not  the  Holy  One  of  Nazareth 
Tell  them,  his  kingdom  is  not  of  the  world.' " 

So  saying,  on  they  past,  and  now  arrived 
Where  such  a  hideous  gliastly  group  abode, 
That  the  Maid  gazed  with  half-averting  eye, 
And  shudder'd  :  each  one  was  a  loiithl}-  corpse; 
The  worm  was  feeding  on  his  putrid  prey; 
Yet  had  they  life  and  feeling  exquisite, 
Though  motionless  and  mute. 

"  Most  wretched  men 
Are  these,"  the  angel  cried.     "  Poets  thou  seest 
Whose  loose,  lascivious  lays  perpetuated 
Their  own  corruption.     Soul-polluted  slaves, 
Who  sate  them  down,  deliberately  l(!wd, 
So  to  awake  and  pamper  lust  in  minds 
Unborn ;  and  therefore  foul  of  body  now 
As  then  they  were  of  soul,  they  here  abide 
Long  as  the  evil  works  the}'  left  on  earth 
Shall  live  to  taint  mankind.     A  dreadful  doom! 
Yet  amply  merited  by  all  who  thus 
Have  to  the  Devil's  service  dedicated 
The  gift  of  song,  the  gift  divine  of  heaven !  " 

And  now  they  reach'd  a  huge  and  massy  pile, 
Massy  it  scein'd,  and  j-ct  with  every  blast 
As  to  its  ruin  shook.     There,  porter  fit. 
Remorse  forever  his  sad  vigils  kept. 
Pale,  hollow-eyed,  emaciate,  sleepless  wretch. 
Inly  he  groan'd,  or,  starting,  wildly  shriek'd. 
Aye  as  the  fabric  tottering  from  its  base, 
Threaten'd  its  fall,  and  so  expectant  still 
Lived  in  tlie  dread  of  danger  still  delay 'd. 
They  enter'd  there  a  large  and  lofty  dome, 
O'er  whose  black  marble  sides  a  dim,  drear  light 
Struggled  with  darkness  from  the  unfrcquent  lamp. 
Fiiithroned  around,  the  murderers  of  mankind, 
Monarchs,  the  great,  the  glorious,  the  august, 
Each  bearing  on  his  brow  a  crown  of  fire, 
Sat  stern  and  silent.     Niinrod,  he  was  tliere, 
First  king,  the  mighty  hunter  ;  and  that  chief 
Who  did  belie  his  mother's  fame,  that  so 
He  might  be  called  young  Ammon.     In  tliis  court 
Ctcsar  was  crown'd,  the  great  liberticide  ; 




And  he  who  to  the  death  of  Cicero 
Consented,  thoiioh  the  courtly  minion's  lyre 
Ilath  liy  nin'd  liis  praise,  thougli  Maro  sung  to  him, 
And  when  death  levell'd  to  original  clay 
The  royal  body,  impious  Flattery 
Fell  at  his  feet,  and  worshipp'd  the  new  god. 
Titus  was  here,"  the  coniiueror  of  the  Jews, 
He  the  delight  of  human-kind  misnamed ; 
Cajsars  and  Soldans,  Emperors  and  Kings, 
All  who  for  glory  fought,  here  they  were  all, 
Here  in  the  Hall  of  Glory,  reaping  now 
The  meed  they  merited. 

As  gazing  round 
The  Virgin  mark'd  the  miserable  train, 
A  deep  and  hollow  voice  from  one  went  forth  ; 
"  Thou  who  art  come  to  view  our  punishment, 
Maiden  of  Orleans!  hither  turn  thine  eye, 
For  I  am  he  whose  bloody  victories 
Thy  power  hath  rendcr'd  vain.     Lo  !  I  am  here, 
The  hero  conqueror  of  Agincourt, 
Henry  of  England  1  —  Wretched  that  1  am  ! 
I  might  have  reign'd  in  happiness  and  peace. 
My  coffers  full,  my  subjects  undisturb'd, 
And  Plenty  and  Prosperity  had  loved 
To  dwell  amongst  them  ;   but  in  evil  hour 
Seeing  the  realm  of  France,  by  faction  torn, 
I  thought  in  pride  of  heart  that  it  would  fall 
An  easy  prey.     I  persecuted  those 
Who  taught  new  doctrines,  though  they  taught  the 

truth ; 
And  when  1  heard  of  thousands  by  the  sword 
Cut  off,  or  blasted  by  the  pestilence, 
I  calmly  counted  up  my  proper  gains. 
And  sent  new  herds  to  slaughter.     Temperate 
Myseif,  no  blood  that  mutinied,  no  vice 
Tainting  my  private  life,  I  sent  abroad 
Muruer  and  Rape ;  and  therefore  am  I  doom'd, 
Like  these  imperial  sufferers,  crown'd  with  fire, 
Here  to  remain,  till  man's  awaken'd  eye 
Shall  see  the  genuine  blackness  of  our  deeds; 
And  warn'd  by  them,  till  the  whole  human  race, 
Equalling  in  bliss  the  aggregate  we  caused 
Of  wretchedness,  shall  form  one  brotherhood, 
One  universal  family  of  love." 


The  Maiden,  musing  on  the  warrior's  words, 
Turn  d  from  the  Hall  of  Glory.     Now  they  reach'd 
A  cavern,  at  whose  mouth  a  Genius  stood, 
In  front  a  beardless  youth,  whose  smiling  eye 
Bcam'd  promise,  but  behind,  wither'd  and  old, 
And  all  unlovely.     Underneath  his  feet 
Records  obliterate  lay,  and  laurels  sear. 
He  held  an  hour-glass,  and  as  the  sands  fall, 
So  pass  the  lives  of  men.     By  him  they  past 
Along  the  darksome  cave,  and  reach'd  a  stream, 
Still  rolling  onward  its  perpetual  course 
Noiseless  and  undisturb'd.     Here  they  ascend 
A  bark  unpiloted,  that  down  the  stream, 
Borne  by  the  current,  rush'd,  which  circling  still. 
Returning  to  itself,  an  island  form'd ; 

Nor  had  the  Maiden's  footsteps  ever  reach'd 
The  insulated  coast,  eternally 
Rapt  round  in  endless  whirl :  but  Theodore 
Drove  with  a  spirit's  will  the  obedient  bark. 

They  land ;  a  mighty  fabric  meets  their  eyes, 
Seen  by  its  gem-born  light.     Of  adamant 
The  pile  was  framed,  forever  to  abide 
Firm  in  eternal  strength.     Before  the  gate 
Stood  eager  Expectation,  as  to  catch 
The  half-heard  murnmrs  issuing  from  within. 
Her  mouth  half-open'd,  and  her  head  stretch'd  forth. 
On  the  other  side  there  stood  an  aged  crone. 
Listening  to  every  breath  of  air;  she  knew 
Vague  suppositions  and  uncertain  dreams 
Of  what  was  soon  to  come,  for  she  would  mark 
The  little  glow-worm's  self-emitted  light. 
And  argue  thence  of  kingdoms  overthrown. 
And  desolated  nations;  ever  fill'd 
With  undetermined  terror,  as  she  heard 
Or  distant  screech-owl,  or  the  regular  beat 
Of  evening  death-watch. 

"Maid,"  the  spirit  cried, 
"  Here,  robed  in  shadows,  dwells  Futurity. 
There  is  no  eye  hath  seen  her  secret  form. 
For  round  the  Mother  of  Time  eternal  mists 
Hover.     If  thou  would'st  read  the  book  of  fate, 
Go  in !  " 

The  damsel  for  a  moment  paused, 
Then  to  the  angel  spake  :  "  All-gracious  Heaven, 
Benignant  in  withholding,  hath  denied 
To  man  that  knowledge.     1,  in  faith  assured, 
Knowing  my  heavenly  Father  for  the  best 
Ordaineth  all  things,  in  that  faith  remain 

"  Well  and  wisely  hast  thou  said," 
So  Theodore  replied  ;  "  and  now,  O  Maid  I 
Is  there  amid  this  boundless  universe 
One  whom  thy  soul  would  visit?     Is  there  place 
To  memory  dear,  or  vision'd  out  by  hope. 
Where  thou  would'st  now  be  present?  Form  the 

And  I  am  with  thee,  there." 

His  closing  speech 
Yet  sounded  on  her  ear,  and  lo  !  they  stood 
Swift  as  the  sudden  thought  that  guided  them. 
Within  the  little  cottage  that  she  loved. 
"He  sleeps!  the  good  man  sleeps  !  "enrapt  she  cried, 
As  bending  o'er  her  uncle's  lowly  bed 
Her  eye  retraced  his  features.     "  See  the  beads 
Which  never  morn  nor  night  he  fails  to  tell, 
Remembering  me,  his  child,  in  every  prayer. 
Oh  !  peaceful  be  thy  sleep,  thou  dear  old  man  ! 
Good  Angels  guard  thy  rest !  and  when  thine  hour 
Is  come,  as  gently  mayst  thou  wake  to  life. 
As  when  through  yonder  lattice  the  next  sun 
Shall  bid  thee  to  thy  morning  orisons  !  " 

"Thy  voice  is  heard,"  the  angel  guide  rejoin  d, 
"  He  sees  thee  in  his  dreams,  he  hears  thee  breathe 
Blessings,  and  happy  is  the  good  man's  rest. 
Thy  fame  has  reach'd  him,  for  who  hath  not  heard 
Thy  wondrous  exploits  ?  and  his  aged  heart 
Hath  felt  the  deepest  joy  that  ever  yet 
Made  his  glad  blood  flow  fast.    Sleep  on,  old  Claude ! 

fiooK  rii. 



Peaceful,  pure  spirit,  be  thy  sojourn  here. 
And  sliorl  ami  soon  tiiy  passajro  to  that  world 
W'here  friends  shall  part  no  more  ! 

Does  thy  soul  own 
No  other  wish  ?  or  sleeps  poor  Madclon 
Forgotten  in  her  grave?  —  Seest  tliou  yon  star," 
Tlie  spirit  pursued,  regardless  that  her  eye 
Reproach'd  him  ;  "seest  thou  that  evening  star 
W'liose  lovely  light  so  often  we  beheld 
From  yonder  woodbine   porch?      How  have  we 

Into  the  dark,  deep  sky,  till  the  baffled  soul. 
Lost  in  the  infinite,  return'd,  and  felt 
The  burden  of  her  bodily  load,  and  yearn'd 
For  freedom  !     Maid,  in  yonder  evening  star 
Lives  thy  departed  friend.     I  read  that  glance, 
And  we  are  there  !  " 

He  said,  and  they  had  past 
The  immeasurable  space. 

Then  on  her  ear 
The  lonely  song  of  adoration  rose. 
Sweet  as  the  cloister'd  virgin's  vesper  hymn, 
Whose  spirit,  happily  dead  to  earthly  hopes, 
Already  lives  in  heaven.     Abrupt  the  song 
Ceased,  tremulous  and  quick  a  cry 
Of  joyful  wonder  roused  the  astonish'd  Maid, 
And  instant  Madelon  was  in  her  arms ; 
No  airy  form,  no  unsubstantial  shape, 
She  felt  her  friend ;  she  prest  her  to  her  heart ; 
Their  tears  of  rapture  mingled. 

She  drew  back, 
And  eagerly  she  gazed  on  Madelon, 
Then  fell  upon  her  neck  and  wept  again. 
No  more  she  saw  the  long-drawn  lines  of  grief, 
The  emaciate  form,  the  hue  of  sickliness. 
The  languid  eye  :  youth's  loveliest  freshness  now 
Mantled  her  cheek,  whose  every  lineament 
Bespake  the  soul  at  rest,  a  holy  calm, 
A  deep  and  full  tranquillity  of  bliss. 

"  Thou   then   art   come,  my   first   and   dearest 
The  well-known  voice  of  Madelon  began, 
"  Thou  then  art  come  !     And  was  thy  pilgrimage 
So  short  on  earth  ?  and  was  it  painful  too. 
Painful  and  short  as  mine  ?  but  blessed  they 
Who  from  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  the  world 
Early  escape !  " 

"Nay,"  Theodore  replied, 
"  She  hath  not  yet  fulfill'd  her  mortal  work. 
Permitted  visitant  from  earth  she  comes 
To  see  the  seat  of  rest ;  and  oftentimes 
In  sorrow  shall  her  soul  remember  this. 
And  patient  of  its  transitory  woe. 
Partake  again  the  anticipated  joy." 

"  Soon  be  that  work  perform'd  !  "  the  Maid  ex- 
"  O  Madelon  !  O  Theodore  !    My  soul. 
Spurning  the  cold  communion  of  the  world. 
Will  dwell  with  you.     But  I  shall  patiently. 
Yea,  even  with  joy,  endure  the  allotted  ills 
Of  which  the  memory  in  this  better  state 
Shall  heighten  bliss.     That  hour  of  agony. 
When,  Madelon,  1  felt  thy  dying  grasp. 

And  from  thy  forehead  wiped  the  dews  of  death, 
The  very  anguish  of  tliat  hour  becomes 
A  joy  for  memory  now." 

"  O  earliest  friend  ! 
I  too  remember,"  Madelon  replied, 
"  That  hour,  thy  looks  of  watchful  agony, 
The  supprest  grief  that  struggled  in  thine  eye 
Endearing  love's  last  kindness.    Thou  didst  know 
With  what  ii  deep  and  earnest  hope  intense 
I  felt  the  hour  draw  on  :  but  who  can  speak 
The  unutterable  transport,  when  mine  eyes, 
As  from  a  long  and  dreary  dream,  unclosed 
Amid  this  peaceful  vale,  —  unclosed  upon 
My  Arnaud  !     He  had  built  me  up  a  bower, 
A  bower  of  rest.  —  See,  Maiden,  where  he  comes, 
His  manly  lineaments,  his  beaming  eye. 
The  same,  but  now  a  holler  innocence 
Sits  on  his  cheek,  and  loftier  thoughts  illume 
The  enlighten'd  glance." 

They  met ;  what  jo}'  was  theirs 
He  best  can  feel,  who  for  a  dear  friend  dead 
Hath  wet  the  midnight  pillow  with  his  tears. 

Fair  was  the  scene  around  ;  an  ample  vale 
Whose  mountain  circle  at  the  distant  verge 
Lay  soften'd  on  the  sight;  the  near  ascent 
Rose  bolder  up,  in  part  abrupt  and  bare, 
Part  with  the  ancient  majesty  of  woods 
Adorn'd,  or  lifting  high  its  rocks  sublime. 
A  river's  liquid  radiance  roll'd  beneath  : 
Beside  the  bower  of  Madelon  it  wound 
A  broken  stream,  whose  shallows,  though  the  waves 
Roll'd  on  their  way  with  rapid  melody, 
A  child  might  tread.     Behind,  an  orange  grove 
Its  gay,  green  foliage  starr'd  with  golden  fruit. 
But  with  what  odors  did  their  blossoms  load 
The  passing  gale  of  eve  !     Less  thrilling  sweets 
Rose  from  the  marble's  perforated  floor, 
Where  kneeling  at  her  prayers,  the  Moorish  queen 
Inhaled  the  cool  delight,"  and  whilst  she  ask'd 
The  prophet  for  his  promised  paradise, 
Shaped  from  the  present  bliss  its  utmost  joys. 
A  goodly  scene  I  fair  as  that  fairy  land 
Where  Arthur  lives,  by  ministering  spirits  borne 
From  Camelot's  bloody  banks ;  or  as  the  groves 
Of  earliest  Eden,  where,  so  legends  say, 
Enoch  abides  ;  and  he  who,  rapt  away 
By  fiery  steeds  and  charioted  in  fire, 
Past  in  his  mortal  form  the  eternal  ways ; 
And  John,  beloved  of  Christ,  enjoying  there 
The  beatific  vision,  sometimes  seen. 
The  distant  dawning  of  eternal  day, 
Till  all  things  be  fulfilled. 

"  Survey  this  scene  ; 
So  Theodore  address'd  the  Maid  of  Arc  ; 
"There  is  no  evil  here,  no  wretchedness; 
It  is  the  heaven  of  those  who  nurst  on  earth 
Their  nature's  gentlest  feelings.     Yet  not  here 
Centring  their  joys,  but  with  a  patient  hope. 
Waiting  the  allotted  hour  when  capable 
Of  loftier  callings,  to  a  better  state 
They  pass ;  and  hither  from  that  better  state 
Frequent  they  come,  preserving  so  those  ties 
Which  through  the  infinite  progressiveness 
Complete  our  perfi'ct  bliss. 




Even  such,  so  blest, 
Save  that  the  memory  of  no  sorrows  past 
Heighten'd  tlie  present  joy,  our  world  was  once, 
In  the  first  era  of  its  innocence, 
Ere  man  had  learnt  to  bow  the  knee  to  man. 
Was  there  a  youth  whom  warm  affection  fill'd, 
He  spake  his  honest  heart ;  the  earliest  fruits 
His  toil  produced,  the  sweetest  flowers  that  deck'd 
The  sunny  bank,  he  gather'd  for  the  maid, 
Nor  she  disdain'd  the  gift;  for  Vice  not  yet 
Had  burst  the  dungeons  of  her  Hell,  and  rear'd 
Those  artificial  boundaries  that  divide 
Man  from  his  species.     State  of  blessedness  ! 
Till  tiiat  ill-omen'd  hour  when  Cain's  true  son 
Delved  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  gold, 
Accursed  bane  of  virtue,  —  of  such  force 
As  poets  feign  dwelt  in  the  Gorgon's  locks, 
Which  whoso  saw,  felt  instant  the  life-blood 
Cold  curdle  in  his  veins,  the  creeping  flesh 
Grew  stiff"  with  horror,  and  the  heart  forgot 
To  beat.     Accursed  hour  !  for  man  no  more 
To  Justice  paid  his  homage,  but  forsook 
Her  altars,  and  bow'd  down  before  the  shrine 
Of  Wealth  and  Power,  the  idols  he  had  made. 
Then  Hell  enlarged  herself,  her  gates  flew  wide. 
Her  legion  fiends  rush'd  forth.     Oppression  came. 
Whose  frown  is  desolation,  and  whose  breath 
Blasts  like  tlie  pestilence ;  and  Poverty, 
A  meagre  monster,  who  with  withering  touch 
Makes  barren  all  the  better  part  of  man. 
Mother  of  Miseries.     Then  the  goodly  earth 
Which  God  had  framed  for  happiness,  became 
One  theatre  of  woe,  and  all  that  God 
Had  given  to  bless  free  men,  these  tyrant  fiends 
His  bitterest  curses  made.     Yet  for  the  best 
Have  all  things  been  appointed  by  the  All-wise  I 
For  by  experience  taught  shall  man  at  length 
Dash  down  his  Moloch-idols,  Samson-like, 
And  burst  his  fetters.     Then  in  the  ab3rss 
Oppression  shall  be  chain'd,  and  Poverty 
Die,  and  with  her,  her  brood  of  miseries ; 
And  'Virtue  and  Equality  preserve 
The  reign  of  Love,  and  earth  shall  once  again 
Be  Paradise,  where  Wisdom  shall  secure 
The  state  of  bliss  which  Ignorance  betray 'd." 

"  Oh  age  of  happiness  ! "  the  Maid  exclaim'd, 
"  Roll  fast  thy  current.  Time,  till  that  blest  age 
Arrive  !  and  happy  thou,  my  Theodore, 
Permitted  thus  to  see  the  sacred  depths 
Of  wisdom  !  " 

"  Such,"  the  blessed  spirit  replied, 
"Beloved!  such  our  lot;  allowed  to  range 
The  vast  infinity,  progressive  still 
In  knowledge  and  increasing  blessedness, 
This  our  united  portion.     Thou  hast  yet 
A  little  while  to  sojourn  amongst  men  : 
I  will  be  with  thee ;  there  shall  not  a  breeze 
Wanton  around  thy  temples,  on  whose  wing 
I  will  not  hover  near ;  and  at  that  hour 
When  from  its  fleshly  sepulchre  let  loose. 
Thy  phojni.x  soul  shall  soar,  O  best-beloved  I 
I  will  be  with  thee  in  thine  agonies, 
And  welcome  thee  to  life  and  happiness. 
Eternal,  infinite  beatitude  !  " 

He  spake,  and  led  her  near  a  straw-roofd  cot, 
Love's  palace.     By  the  Virtues  circled  there 
The  Immortal  listen'd  to  such  melodies. 
As  aye,  wlien  one  good  deed  is  register'd 
Above,  reecho  in  the  halls  of  heaven. 
Labor  was  there,  his  crisp  locks  floating  loose; 
Clear  was  his  cheek,  and  beaming  his  full  eye. 
And   strong   his   arm   robust;    ilie    wood-nymph 

Still  follow'd  on  his  path,  and  where  he  trod 
Fresh   flowers  and  fruits   arose.     And  there  was 

The  general  friend;  and  Pity,  whose  mild  eye 
Wept  o'er  the  Vv'idow'd  dove;  and,  loveliest  form. 
Majestic  Chastity,  whose  sober  smile 
Delights  and  awes  the  soul ;  a  laurel  wreath 
llestrain'd  her  tresses,  and  upon  her  breast 
The  snow-drop  hung  its  head,*  that  seem'd  to  grow 
Spontaneous,  cold  and  fair.     Beside  the  maid 
Love  went  submiss,  with  eye  more  dangerous 
Then  fancied  basilisk  to  wound  whoe'er 
Too  bold  approach'd  ;  yet  anxious  would  he  read 
Her  every  rising  wish,  then  only  pleased 
When   pleasing.     Hymning   him,    the  song   was 


"  Glory  to  thee  whose  vivifying  power 
Pervades  all  Nature's  universal  frame  ! 
Glory  to  thee,  Creator  Love  !  to  thee. 
Parent  of  all  the  smiling  Charities, 
That  strow  the  thorny  path  of  life  with  flowers ' 
Glory  to  thee,  Preserver !     To  thy  praise 
The  awakened  woodlands  echo  all  the  day 
Their  living  melody  ;  and  warbling  forth 
To  thee  her  twilight  song,  the  nightingale 
Holds  the  lone  traveller  from  his  way,  or  charms 
The  listening  poet's  ear.     Where  Love  shall  deign 
To  fix  his  seat,  there  blameless  Pleasure  sheds 
Her  roseate  dews ;  Content  will  sojourn  there. 
And  Happiness  behold  Aff'ection's  eye 
Gleam  with  the  mother's  smile.     Thrice  happy  he 
Who  feels  thy  holy  power !  he  shall  not  drag, 
Forlorn  and  friendless,  along  life's  long  path 
To  age's  drear  abode  ;  he  shall  not  waste 
The  bitter  evening  of  his  days  unsooth'd; 
But  Hope  shall  cheer  his  hours  of  solitude. 
And  Vice  shall  vainly  strive  to  wound  his  breast, 
That  bears  that  talisman ;  and  when  he  meets 
The  eloquent  eye  of  Tenderness,  and  hears 
The  bosom-thrilling  music  of  her  voice, 
The  joy  he  feels  shall  purify  his  soul, 
And  imp  it  for  anticipated  heaven." 


Note  1,  p.  Sfi,  col.].  —  Instructing  best  the  passive  faculty. 

May  says  of  Serapis, 

F.rudit  at  placide  humanam  per  somnia  mcntem, 

J\'octurnaquc  (/itictc  docct ;  nulloqui;  labore 

Hie  tavtum  porta  rst  prctiosa  scicntia,  nulla 

Ezcutitur  studio  vcruin,     Mortalia  corda 

Tunc  Dcus  iste  docct,  cum  sunt  minus  apta  doceri, 

Cum  nullum  obsequium  pr<j:stant,  meritisque  fatcntur 



^i7  sese  ttcbert  suis  ;  tunc  recte  scientcs 

Cum  nil  scire  valent.     .Vun  illo  tempvre  sensus 

Ilamanos  fursan  dignalur  namen  inire, 

Cam  propriis  possmit  per  sc  dUcursibiis  uti 

JVi'/urtc  humanU  ratio  dicina  coircL  —  Sup.  Lucani. 

Note  2,  p.  86,  col.  1. ind  all  things  are  Vial  seem. 

I  have  mot  with  a  singular  talo  to  ilhistrate  tliis  siiiritual 
theory  of  dreams. 

Guntrum,  king  of  the  Franks,  was  lihcral  to  tlie  poor,  and 
he  himSL-lf  experienced  the  wonderful  effects  of  divine  liber- 
a^^ty  For  one  day,  as  lie  was  hunting  in  a  forest,  he  was 
separated  from  his  companions,  and  arrived  at  a  little  stream 
of  water  with  only  one  comrade  of  tried  and  approval  fidelity. 
Hero  he  found  himself  opprest  hy  drowsiness,  and,  reclining 
his  head  upon  the  servant's  liqi,  went  to  sleep.  The  servant 
witnessed  a  wonderful  thing,  for  he  saw  a  little  beast  creep 
out  of  the  mouth  of  his  sleeping  m  istcr,  and  go  immediately 
lo  the  streamlet,  which  it  vuinly  attempted  to  cross.  The 
servant  drew  his  sword,  and  laid  it  across  tlie  water,  over 
which  the  little  beast  eiisily  past,  and  crept  into  a  hole  of  a 
mountain  on  the  opposite  side  ;  from  whence  it  made  its  ap- 
pearance again  in  an  hour,  and  returned  by  the  same  means 
into  the  king's  mouth.  The  king  then  awakened,  and  told 
his  companion  that  he  had  dreamt  that  he  was  arrived  upon 
the  bank  of  an  immense  river,  which  he  had  crossed  by  a 
bridge  of  iron,  and  from  thence  came  tc  a  mountain  in  which 
a  great  quantity  of  gold  was  concealed.  When  the  king  had 
concluded,  the  servant  related  what  he  had  behold,  and  they 
both  went  to  examine  the  mountain,  where,  upon  digging,  they 
discovered  an  immense  weight  of  gold. 

1  stumbled  upon  this  tale  in  a  book  entitled  Sphinx,  TTieo- 
lo^rico-Philosophica.  Authore  Juhanne  Ilddfddio,  Ecdcsiastc 
Ebersbachiano.     1621. 

Tlie  fame  story  is  in  Matthew  of  Westminster ;  it  is  added 
that  Guntrum  applied  tlie  treasures  tlius  found  to  pious  uses. 

For  the  truth  of  the  theory  there  is  the  evidence  of  a  monk- 
ish miracle.  When  Thurcillus  was  about  to  follow  St.  Julian 
and  visit  the  world  of  souls,  his  guide  said  lo  him,  "  Let  thy 
body  rest  in  the  bed,  for  thy  spirit  only  is  about  to  depart  with 
me  ;  and  lost  the  body  should  appear  dead,  I  will  send  into  it 
a  vital  breath." 

The  body,  however, by  a  strange  sympathy,  was  affected  like 
the  spirit  ;  for  when  the  foul  and  fetid  smoke  which  arose 
from  the  tithes  withheld  on  earth  had  nearly  suffocated  Thur- 
cillus, and  made  him  cough  twice,  those  who  were  near  his 
body  said  that  it  coughed  twice  about  the  same  time. 

MatUtew  Paris. 

Note  3,  p.  88,  col.  2.  —  Ur  deeper  gable  dyed. 

These  lines  strongly  resemble  a  passage  in  the  Pharonnida 
of  William  Chamberlayne,  apoet  who  his  told  an  interesting 
story  in  uncouth  rhymes,  and  mingled  sublimity  of  thought  and 
beauty  of  expression,  with  the  quaintest  conceits  and  most 
awkward  inversions. 

On  a  rock  more  high 
Than  Nature's  common  surface,  she  beholds 
The  mansion  house  of  Fate,  which  tlius  unfolds 
Its  sacred  mysteries.     A  trine  within 
A  quadrate  placed,  both  these  encompast  in 
A  perfect  circle  was  its  form  ;  but  what 
Its  matter  was,  for  us  to  wonder  at, 
Is  undiscovered  left.     A  tower  there  stands 
At  every  angle,  where  Time's  fatal  hands 
The  impartial  I'arca;  dwell ;  i'  the  first  she  sees 
Clotho  the  kindest  of  the  Destinies, 
From  immaterial  essences  to  cull 
The  seeds  of  life,  and  of  them  frame  the  wool 
For  Lachesis  to  spin  ;  about  her  flie 
Myriads  of  souls,  that  yet  want  flesh  to  lie 
Warmed  with  their  funrlions  in,  whoso  strength  bestows 
That  power  by  whirh  man  ripe  for  misery  grows. 

Her  ne\t  of  objects  was  thnt  glorious  tower 
Where  that  swift-fingered  nymph  that  spares  no  hour 
From  mortals'  service  draws  the  various  threads 
Of  life  in  several  lengths  ;  to  weary  beds 

Of  age  extending  some,  whilst  others  in 

Their  infancy  are  broke  :  some  blackt  in  sin. 

Others,  titc  fanorilcs  of  Heaven.,  from  whence 

Their  origin,  candid  with  mnocenec  ; 

Some  purpled  in  afflictions,  others  dyed 

In  sanguine  pleasures  :  some  in  glittering  jiride 

Spun  to  adorn  the  earth,  whilst  others  wear 

Rugs  of  deformity,  but  knots  of  care 

No  thread  was  wholly  free  from.     Next  to  this 

Fair  glorious  tower,  was  placed  that  black  abyss 

Of  dreadful  Atropos,  the  baleful  seat 

Of  death  and  horrour,  in  each  room  repleat 

With  lazy  damps,  loud  groans,  and  the  sad  sight 

Of  pale  grim  ghosts,  those  terrours  of  the  night. 

To  this,  the  last  stage  that  the  winding  clew 

Of  life  can  lead  mortality  unto, 

Fear  was  the  dreadful  porter,  which  let  in 

All  guests  sent  thither  by  destructive  sin. 

It  is  possible  that  I  may  have  written  from  the  recollection 
of  this  passage.  The  conceit  is  the  same,  and  I  willingly  at- 
tribute it  to  Chamberlayne,  a  poet  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
many  hours  of  delight. 

Note  4,  p.  89,  col.  2.  —  Shall  Uie  huge  camel  pass. 

I  had  originally  written  cable  instead  of  camel.  The  alter- 
ation would  not  be  worth  noticing  were  it  not  for  the  reason 
which  occasioned  it.  Facilius  elephas  per  foramen  acus,  is 
among  the  Hebrew  adages  collected  by  Drusius  ;  the  same 
metaphor  is  found  in  two  other  Jewish  proverbs,  and  this 
confirms  beyond  all  doubt  the  common  reading  of  Matt.  xix.  24 

Note  5,  p.  89,  col.  2.  —  Large  draughts  of  molten  gold. 

The  same  idea,  and  almost  the  same  words,  are  in  one  of 
Ford's  plays.     The  passage  is  a  very  fine  one  : 

Ay,  you  are  wretched,  miserably  wretched, 
Almost  condemn'd  alive  !     There  is  a  place, 
(List,  daughter !)  in  a  black  and  hollow  vault. 
Where  day  is  never  seen  ;  there  shines  no  sun. 
But  flaming  horror  of  consuming  fires  ; 
A  lightless  sulphur,  choaked  with  smoaky  foggs 
Of  an  infected  darkness.     In  this  place 
Dwell  many  thousand  thousands  sundry  sorts 
Of  never-dying  deaths  ;  there  damned  souls 
Roar  without  pity,  there  are  gluttons  fed 
With  toads  and  adders  :  there  is  burning  oil 
Pour'd  down  the  drunkard's  throat,  the  usurer 
Is  forced  to  sup  whole  draughts  of  molten  gold  : 
There  is  the  murderer  for  ever  stabb'd. 
Yet  he  can  never  die  ;  there  lies  the  wanton 
On  racks  of  burning  steel,  whilst  in  his  soul 
He  feels  the  torment  of  his  raging  lust. 

'7fa  Pity  shr^s  a  Whore. 

I  wrote  this  passage  when  very  young,  and  the  idea,  trite  as 
it  is,  was  new  to  me.  It  occurs  I  believe  in  most  description! 
of  hell,  and  perhaps  owes  its  origin  to  the  fate  of  Crassus. 

Note  0,  p.  92,  col.  1.  —  Titus  was  here. 

During  the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  "  the  Roman  commander, 
with  a  generous  elcmeucy,  that  inseparable  attendant  on  true 
heroism,  labored  incessantly,  and  to  the  very  last  moment,  tc 
preserve  the  place.  With  this  view,  he  again  and  again  en- 
treated the  tyrants  to  surrender  and  save  their  lives.  \Vith 
the  same  view  also,  after  carrying  the  second  wall,  the  siega 
was  intermitted  four  days  :  to  rouse  their  fears,  prisoners,  to 
the  number  office  hundred  or  more,  were  crucified  daily  before 
the  walls  ;  till  space,  Josephus  says,  was  wanlinsfcr  the  crosses, 
and  crosses  for  the  c(7;)fi>&s."  — Churton's  Bnmpton  Lectures 

If  any  of  my  readers  should  inquire  why  Titus  Ves|)asian, 
the  delight  of  mankind,  is  placed  in  such  a  situation,— I 
answer,  for  this  instance  of  "  his  generous  clemency,  that  in- 
separable attendant  on  true  heroism  '.  " 



Note  7,  p.  93,  col.  2.  —  Inlmled  the  coul  delight. 

In  the  cabinet  of  the  Alhambra,  where  the  queen  used  to 
dress  and  say  her  prayers,  and  which  is  still  an  enchanting  sight, 
there  is  a  slab  of  marble  full  of  small  holes,  through  which 
perfumes  exhaled  that  were  kept  constantly  burning  beneath. 
The  doors  and  windows  are  disposed  so  as  to  afford  the  most 
agreeable  prospects,  and  to  throw  a  soft  yet  lively  light  upon 
the  eyes.     Fresh  currents  of  air,  too,  are  admitted,  so  as  to 

renew  every  instant  the  delicious  coolness  of  this  apartment 
Sketch  of  the  irustorij  nf  the  Spanish  Muors,prrJUed 
to  Florian's  Oonsalvo  of  Cordova. 

Note  8,  p.  94,  col.  2.  —  The  snow-drop  hung  its  head. 

"  The  grave  matron  does  not  perceive  How  time  has  im- 
paired her  charms,  but  decks  her  faded  bosom  with  the  same 
snow-drop  that  seems  to  grow  on  the  breast  of  the  virgin." 

P.  H. 

3Jtttitnilr  an?r  jUtnor  l^t^tmn 

VOL.   I. 

What  r  WAS,  is  passed  by Wither. 


The  earliest  pieces  in  these  Juvenile  and  Minor 
Poems  were  written  before  the  writer  had  left 
school ;  between  the  date  of  these  and  of  the  latest 
there  is  an  interval  of  six  and  forty  years:  as  much 
diiFerence,  therefore,  may  be  perceived  in  them,  as 
in  the  different  stages  of  life  from  boyhood  to  old 

Some  of  the  earliest  appeared  in  a  little  volume 
published  at  Batji  in  the  autumn  of  1794,  with  this 
title  :  —  "  Poems  containing  the  Retrospect,  &c. 
by  Robert  Lovelland  Robert  Southey,  1795;  "  and 
with  this  motto  :  — 

Miauentar  alroe 
Carmine  cam.  —  Hokace. 

At  the  end  of  that  volume,  Joan  of  Arc  was  an- 
nounced as  to  be  published  by  subscription. 

Others  were  published  at  Bristol,  1797,  in  a  sin- 
gle volume,  with  this  motto  from  Akenside  :  — 

Goddess  of  the  Lyre,  — 

with  thee  comes 
Majestic  Truth ;  and  where  Truth  deigns  to  come. 
His  sister  Liberty  will  not  be  far. 

A  second  volume  followed  at  Bristol  in  1799, 
after  the  second  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  com- 
mencing with  the  Vision  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans. 
The  motto  to  this  was  from  the  Epilogue  to  Spen- 
ser's Shepherds'  Calendar :  — 

The  better,  please  ;  the  worse,  displease  :  I  ask  no  more. 

In  the  third  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc,  the  Vision 
was  printed  separately,  at  tlie  end ;  and  its  place 
was  supplied  in  the  second  edition  of  the  Poems  by 
miscellaneous  pieces. 

A  separate  volume,  entitled  "  Metrical  Tales  and 
other  Poems,"  was  published  in  1805,  with  this 
advertisement :  —  '■  These  Poems  were  published 
some  years  ago  in  the  Annual  Anthology.  (Bris- 
tol, 1799,  1800.)     They  have  now  been  revised  and 

printed  in  this  collected  form,  because  they  have 
pleased  those  readers  whom  the  author  was  most 
desirous  of  pleasing.  Let  them  be  considered  as 
the  desultory  productions  of  a  man  sedulously  em- 
ployed upon  better  things." 

These  various  pieces  were  re-arranged  in  three 
volumes,  under  the  title  of  Minor  Poems,  in  1815, 
with  this  motto, 

JSTos  hcec  novimus  esse  nihil ; 

and  they  were  published  a  second  time  in  the  same 
form,  1823. 

The  Ballads  and  Metrical  Tales  contained  in 
those  volumes  belong  to  a  different  part  of  this 
collection ;  their  other  contents  are  comprised  here  ; 
and  the  present  volume  consists,  witJi  very  few 
exceptions,  of  pieces  written  in  youth  or  early 
manhood.  One  of  these,  written  in  my  twentieth 
year,  not  having  been  published  at  the  time,  would 
never  have  been  made  public  by  my  own  act 
and  deed  ;  but  as  Wat  Tyler  obtained  considerable 
notoriety  upon  its  surreptitious  publication,  it 
seemed  proper  that  a  production  which  will  be 
specially  noticed  whenever  the  author  shall  be 
delivered  over  to  the  biographers,  should  be  inclu- 
ded here.  They  who  may  desire  to  know  more 
than  is  stated  in  the  advertisement  now  prefixed 
to  it,  are  referred  to  a  Letter  addressed  to  William 
Smith,  Esq.  M.  P.,  1817,  reprinted  in  the  second 
volume  of  my  Essays  Moral  and  Political,  1832. 

The  second  volume  of  this  part  of  the  Collection 
contains  one  juvenile  piece,  and  many  which  were 
written  in  early  manhood.  The  remainder  were 
composed  in  middle  or  later  life,  and  comprise 
(witli  one  exception  that  will  more  conveniently 
be  arranged  elsewliere)  all  the  odes  which  as  Poet 
Laureate  I  have  written  upon  national  occasions. 
Of  these  the  Carmen  Triumphale,  a.nd  the  Carmina 
Aulica,  were  separately  published  in  quarto  in  1814, 
and  reprinted  together  in  a  little  volume  in  1821. 

The  Juvenile  and  Minor  Poems  in  this  Col- 
lection bear  an  inconsiderable  proportion  to  those 



of  substantive  length  :  for  a  small  part  only  of  my 
vouthful  effusions  were  spared  from  those  autos- 
da-fe  in  which  from  time  to  time  piles  upon  piles 
have  been  consumed.  In  middle  life  works  of 
greater  extent,  or  of  a  different  kind,  left  me  little 
leisure  for  occasional  poetry ;  tiie  impulse  ceased, 
and  latterly  the  inclination  was  so  seldom  felt,  that 
it  required  an  effort  to  call  it  forth. 

Sir  William  Davenant,  in  the  Preface  to  Gon- 
dibert,  '•  took  occasion  to  accuse  and  condemn  all 
those  hasty  digestions  of  thought  whicli  were  pub- 
lished in  his  youth  ;  a  sentence,  said  he,  not  pro- 
nounced out  of  melancholy  rigour,  but  from  a 
cheerful  obedience  to  tlie  just  authority  of  expe- 
rience. For  that  grave  mistress  of  the  world,  ex- 
perience (in  whose  profitable  school  those  before 
the  Flood  stayed  long,  but  we,  like  wanton  chil- 
dren, come  thither  late,  yet  too  soon  are  called  out 
of  it,  and  fetched  home  by  death)  hath  taught  me 
that  the  cnirendcrings  of  unripe  age  become  abor- 
tive and  deformed  ;  and  that  't  is  a  high  presump- 
tion to  entertain  a  nation  (who  are  a  poet's  stand- 
ing guest,  and  require  monarchical  respect)  with 
liasty  provisions  ;  as  if  a  poet  might  imitate  the 
familiar  despatch  of  faulconers.  mount  his  Pegasus, 
unhood  his  Muse,  and,  with  a  few  flights,  boast  he 
hath  provided  a  feast  for  a  prince.  Such  posting 
upon  Pegasus  I  have  long  since  foreborne."  Yet 
this  eminently  thoughtful  poet  was  so  far  from 
seeking  to  suppress  the  crude  compositions  which 
he  thus  condemned,  that  he  often  expressed  a  great 
desire  to  see  all  his  pieces  collected  in  one  volume; 
and,  conformably  to  his  wish,  they  were  so  collect- 
ed, after  his  decease,  by  his  widow  and  his  friend 
Herringman  the  bookseller. 

Agreeing  with  Davenant  in  condemning  the 
greater  part  of  my  juvenile  pieces,  it  is  only  as  cru- 
dities that  1  condemn  them ;  for  in  all  that  I  have 
written,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  there  has 
never  been  a  line  which,  for  any  compunctious 
reason,  living  or  dying,  I  could  wish  to  blot. 

Davenant  had  not  changed  liis  opinion  of  his 
own  youtliful  productions  so  as  to  overlook  in  his 
age  the  defects  which  he  had  once  clearly  per- 
ceived ;  but  he  knew  that  pieces  which  it  would 
indeed  have  been  presumptuous  to  re-produce  on 
the  score  of  their  merit,  miffht  yet  be  deemed 
worthy  of  preservation  on  other  grounds  ;  that  to 
his  family  and  friends,  and  to  those  who  might 
take  any  interest  in  English  poetry  hereafter,  they 
would  possess  peculiar  value,  as  characteristic 
memorials  of  one  who  had  held  no  inconsiderable 
place  in  the  literature  of  his  own  times ;  feeling, 
too.  that  he  was  not  likely  to  be  forgotten  by  poster- 
ity, he  thouffhtthat  after  the  specimen  which  he  had 
prod\iced  in  his  Gondibertof  a  great  and  elaborate 
poem,  his  early  attempts  would  be  regarded  with 
curiosity  by  such  of  his  successors  as  should,  like 
him,  study  poetry  as  an  art,  — for  as  an  art  it  must 
be  studied  by  those  who  would  excel  in  it,  though 
excellence  in  it  is  not  attainable  by  art  alone. 

The  cases  are  very  few  in  which  any  thing  more 

can  be  inferred  from  juvenile  poetry,  than  that  the 

aspirant  possesses  imitative  talent,  and  the   power 

of  versifying,  for  which,  as  for  music,  there  must 


be  a  certain  natural  aptitude.  It  is  not  merely 
because  "  they  have  lacked  culture  and  the  inspi- 
ring aid  of  books,"  *  that  so  many  poets  who  have 
been  "sown  by  Nature,"  have  "wanted  the  ac- 
complishment of  verse,"  and  brought  forth  no  fruit 
after  their  kind.  Men  of  the  highest  culture,  of 
whose  poetical  temperament  no  doubt  can  be  en- 
tertained, and  who  had  "taken  to  the  height  the 
measure  of  themselves,"  have  yet  failed  in  tlieir 
endeavor  to  become  poets,  for  want  of  that  accom- 
plishment. It  is  frequently  possessed  without  any 
other  qualification,  or  any  capacity  for  imj)rove- 
mcnt;  but  then  the  innate  and  incurable  defect 
that  renders  it  abortive,  is  at  once  apparent. 

The  state  of  literature  in  this  kingdom  during 
the  last  fifty  years  has  produced  the  same  effect 
upon  poetry  that  academies  produce  upon  paint- 
ing ;  in  both  arts  every  possible  assistance  is 
atlbrded  to  imitative  talents,  and  in  both  they  are 
carried  as  far  as  the  talent  of  imitation  can  reach. 
But  there  is  one  respect  in  which  poetry  differs 
widely  from  the  sister  arts.  Its  fairest  promise 
frequently  proves  deceitful,  whereas  both  in  paint- 
ing and  music  the  early  indications  of  genius  are 
unequivocal.  The  children  who  were  called  musi- 
cal prodigies,  have  become  great  musicians ;  and 
great  painters,  as  far  as  their  history  is  known, 
have  displayed  in  childhood  that  accuracy  of  eye, 
and  dexterity  of  hand,  and  shaping  faculty,  which 
are  the  prime  requisites  for  their  calling.  But  it 
is  often  found  that  young  poets,  of  whom  great 
expectations  were  formed,  have  made  no  progress, 
and  have  even  fallen  short  of  their  first  perform- 
ances. It  may  be  said  that  this  is  because  men 
apply  themselves  to  music  and  to  painting  as  theii 
professions,  but  that  no  one  makes  poetry  the 
business  of  his  life.  This,  however,  is  not  the 
only  reason  :  the  indications,  as  has  already  been 
observed,  are  far  less  certain  ;  and  the  circum- 
stances of  society  are  far  less  favorable  for  the  moral 
and  intellectual  culture  which  is  required  for  all 
the  higher  branches  of  poetry,  —  all,  indeed,  that 
deserves  the  name. 

My  advice,  as  to  publishing,  has  often  been  asked 
by  young  poets,  who  suppose  that  experience  has 
qualified  me  to  give  it,  and  who  have  notyetlearnt 
how  seldom  advice  is  taken,  and  how  little  there- 
fore it  is  worth.  As  a  general  rule,  it  may  be  said 
that  one  who  is  not  deceived  in  the  estimate  which 
he  has  formed  of  his  own  powers,  can  neither 
write  too  much  in  his  youth,  nor  publish  too  little. 
It  cannot,  however,  be  needful  to  caution  tlie 
present  race  of  poetical  adventurers  against  hurry- 
ing with  their  productions  to  the  press,  for  there 
are  obstacles  enough  in  the  way  of  publication. 
Looking  back  upon  my  own  career,  and  acknowl- 
edging my  imprudence  in  this  respect,  I  have,  nev- 
ertheless, no  cause  to  wish  that  I  had  pursued  a 
different  course.  In  this,  as  in  other  circum- 
stances of  my  life,  I  have  reason  to  be  thankful  to 
that  merciful  Providence  which  shaped  the  ends 
that  I  had  roughly  hewn  for  myself 

Keswick,  Sept.  30,  1837. 

*  Wordswortli 


THE    TlllUMPII    OF    WOMAN 


With  way-worn  feet,  a  traveller  woe-begone, 
Life's  upward  road  1  jouniey'd  many  a  day, 
And  framing  many  a  sad  yet  soothing  lay, 

Beguiled  the  solitary  hours  with  song. 
Lonely  my  heart  and  rugged  was  the  way, 
Yet  often  pluck'd  I,  as  I  past  along, 

The  wild  and  simple  flowers  of  poesy  ; 

And  sometimes,  unreflecting  as  a  child. 
Entwined  the  weeds  which  pleased  a  random  eye. 
Take  thou  the  wreath,  Beloved  !  it  is  wild 
And  rudely  garlanded  ;  yet  scorn  not  thou 
The  humble  offering,  where  dark  rosemary  weaves 

Amid  gay  flowers  its  melancholy  leaves, 

And  myrtle  gathered  to  adorn  thy  brow. 

Jiristol,  1796. 


The  Subject  of  this  Poem  is  taken  from  the  third  and  fourth 
Chapters  of  the  First  Book  of  Esdras. 


The  lily  cheek,  the  "  purple  light  of  love," 
The  liquid  lustre  of  the  melting  eye,  — 
Mary  !  of  these  the  Poet  sung,  for  these 
Did  Woman  triumph; — turn  not  thou  away 
Contemptuous  from  the  theme.     No  Maid  of  Arc 
Had,  in  those  ages,  for  her  country's  cause 
Wielded  the  sword  of  freedom;  no  Roland 
Had  borne  the  palm  of  female  fortitude  ; 
No  Corde,  with  self-sacrificing  zeal. 
Had  glorified  again  the  Avenger's  name, 
As  erst  when  Cassar  perish'd  :  haply  too 
Some  strains  may  hence  be  drawn,  befitting  me 
To  offer,  nor  unworthy  thy  regard. 

Robert  Southev. 

Bristol.  1793. 


Gi-Ai)  as  the  weary  traveller  tempest  tost 

To  reach  ?ccure  at  length  his  native  coast, 

Who  wandering  long  o'er  distant  lands  hath  sped, 

The  night-blast  wildly  howling  round  his  head. 

Known  all  the  woes  of  want,  and  felt  the  storm 

Of  the  bleak  winter  parch  his  shivering  form; 

The  journey  o'er  and  every  peril  past 

Beholds  his  little  cottage-home  at  last, 

And  as  he  sees  afar  the  smoke  curl  slow, 

Feels  his  full  eyes  with  transport  overflow  ; 

So  from  the  scene  where  Death  and  Misery  reign. 

And  Vice  and  Folly  drench  with  blood  the  plain, 

Joyful  I  turn,  to  sing  how  Woman's  praise 

Avail'd  again  Jerusalem  to  raise. 

Call'd  forth  the  sanction  of  the  Despot's  nod, 
And  freed  the  nation  best  beloved  of  God. 

Darius  gives  the  feast;  to  Persia's  court, 
Awed  by  his  will,  the  obedient  throng  resort: 
Attending  Satraps  swell  their  prince's  pride. 
And  vanquish'd  Monarchs  grace  the  Conqueror's 

No  more  the  warrior  wears  the  garb  of  war, 
Girds  on  the  sword,  or  mounts  the  scythed  car ; 
No  more  Judma's  sons  dejected  go. 
And  hang  the  head,  and  heave  the  sigh  of  woe. 
From  Persia's  rugged  hills  descend  the  train, 
From  where  Orontes  foams  along  the  plain. 
From  where  Choaspes  rolls  his  royal  waves, 
And  India  sends  her  sons,  submissive  slaves. 
Thy  daughters,  Babylon,  for  this  high  feast 
Weave  the  loose  robe,  and  paint  the  flowery  vest, 
With  roseate  wreaths  they  braid  the  glossy  hair. 
They  tinge  the  cheek  which  nature  form'd  so  fair, 
Learn  the  soft  step,  the  soul-subduing  glance. 
Melt  in  the  song,  and  swim  adown  the  dance. 
Exalted  on  the  Monarch's  golden  throne, 
In  royal  state  the  fair  Apame  shone  ; 
Her  form  of  majesty,  her  eyes  of  fire. 
Chill  with  respect,  or  kindle  with  desire  ; 
The  admiring  multitude  her  charms  adore, 
And  own  her  worthy  of  the  rank  she  bore. 

Now  on  his  couch  reclined  Darius  lay. 
Tired  with  the  toilsome  pleasures  of  the  day; 
Without  Judaea's  watchful  sons  await. 
To  guard  the  sleeping  idol  of  the  state. 
Three  youths  were  these  of  Judah's  royal  race, 
Three  youths  whom  Nature  dower'd  with  every 

To  each  the  form  of  symmetry  she  gave. 
And  haughty  genius  cursed  each  favorite  slave; 
These  fill'd  the  cup,  around  the  Monarch  kept, 
Served  when  he  spake,  and  guarded  while  he  slept. 

Yet  oft  for  Salem's  hallow'd  towers  laid  low 
The  sigh  would  heave,  the  unbidden  tear  would 

flow  ; 
And  when  the  dull  and  wearying  round  of  power 
Allow'd  Zorobabel  one  vacant  hour. 
He  loved  on  Babylon's  high  wall  to  roam. 
And  lingering  gaze  toward  his  distant  home  ; 
Or  on  Euphrates'  willowy  banks  reclined 
Hear  the  sad  harp  moan  fitful  to  the  wind. 


As  now  the  perfumed  lamps  stream  wide  their 
And  social  converse  cheers  the  livelong  night. 
Thus  spake  Zorobabel :  "  Too  long  in  vain 
For  Zion  desolate  her  sons  complain  ; 
All  hopelessly  our  years  of  sorrow  flow, 
And  these  proud  heathen  mock  their  captives'  woe. 
While  Cyrus  triumph'd  here  in  victor  state 
A  brighter  prospect  cheer'd  our  exiled  fate ; 
Our  sacred  walls  again  he  bade  us  raise, 
And  to  Jehovah  rear  the  pile  of  praise. 
Quickly  these  fond  hopes  faded  from  our  eyes, 
As  the  frail  sun  that  gilds  the  wintry  skies. 
And  spreads  a  moment's  radiance  o'er  the  plain. 
Soon  hid  by  clouds  which  dim  the  scene  again. 



"  Opprest  by  Artaxerxes'  jealous  reign, 
We  vainly  pleaded  here,  and  wept  in  vain. 
Now  when  Darius,  chief  ot"  mild  command, 
Uids  joy  and  pleasure  fill  the  festive  land. 
Still  shall  we  droop  the  head  in  sullen  grief, 
And  sternly  silent  shun  to  seek  relief? 
What  if  amid  the  Monarch's  mirthful  throng 
Our  harps  should  echo  to  tlie  clieerful  song  ?  " 

"  Fair  is  the  occasion,"  thus  the  one  replied  ; 
'•  Now  then  let  all  our  tuneful  skill  be  tried. 
And  while  the  courtiers  quaff"  the  smiling  bowl, 
And  wine's  strong  fumes  inspire  the  gladden'd  soul, 
Where  all  around  is  merriment,  be  mine 
To  strike  the  lute,  and  praise  the  power  of  Wine.  " 

"  And  while,"  his  friend  rejoin'd,  "  in  state  alone, 
Lord  of  the  earth,  Darius  fills  the  throne. 
Be  yours  the  mighty  power  of  Wine  to  sing. 
My  lute  shall  sound  the  praise  of  Persia's  King." 

To  them  Zorobabel :  "  On  themes  like  these 
Seek  ye  the  Monarch  of  Mankind  to  please  ; 
To  Wine  superior,  or  to  Power's  strong  arms. 
Be  mine  to  sing  resistless  Woman's  charms. 
To  him  victorious  in  the  rival  lays 
Shall  just  Darius  give  the  meed  of  praise  ; 
A  purple  robe  his  honor'd  frame  shall  fold, 
The  beverage  sparkle  in  his  cup  of  gold  ; 
A  golden  couch  support  his  bed  of  rest. 
The  chain  of  honor  grace  his  favor'd  breast; 
His  the  rich  turban,  his  the  car's  array, 
On  Babylon's  higii  wall  to  wheel  its  way  ; 
And  for  his  wisdom  seated  on  the  throne. 
For  the  King's  Cousin  shall  the  Bard  be  knov/n." 

Intent  they  meditate  the  future  lay, 
And  watch  impatient  for  the  dawn  of  day. 
The  morn  rose  clear,  and  slirill  were  heard  the  flute. 
The  cornet,  sackbut,  dulcimer,  and  lute  ; 
To  Babylon's  gay  streets  the  throng  resort. 
Swarm  through  the  gates,  and  fill  the  festive  court. 
High  on  his  throne  Darius  tower'd  in  pride, 
The  fair  Apame  graced  her  Sovereign's  side  : 
And  now  she  smiled,  and  now  with  mimic  frown 
Placed  on  her  brow  the  Monarch's  sacred  crown. 
In  transport  o'er  her  faultless  form  he  bends. 
Loves  every  look,  and  every  act  commends. 

And  now  Darius  bids  the  herald  call 
Judaea's  Bards  to  grace  the  thronging  hall. 
Hush'd  are  all  sounds,  the  attending   crowd  arc 

And  then  the  Hebrew  gently  touch 'd  the  lute  : 

When  the  Traveller  on  his  way, 
Who  has  toil'd  the  livelong  day, 
Feels  around  on  every  side 
The  chilly  mists  of  eventide, 
Fatigued  and  faint  his  weary  mind 
Recurs  to  all  he  leaves  behind  ; 
lie  thinks  upon  the  well-trimm'd  hearth, 
The  evening  hour  of  social  mirth, 
And  her  who  at  departing  day 
Weeps  for  her  husband  far  away. 

Oh  give  to  him  the  flowing  bowl  ! 
Bid  it  renovate  his  soul  1 
Then  shall  sorrow  sink  to  sleep, 
And  he  who  wept  no  more  shall  weep; 
For  his  care-clouded  brow  shall  clear, 
And  his  glad  eye  will  sparkle  through  the  tear. 

When  tlie  poor  man  heart-opprest 
Betakes  him  to  his  evening  rest, 
And  worn  with  labor  thinks  in  sorrow 
On  the  labor  of  to-morrow  ; 
Wlien  repining  at  his  lot 
He  hies  him  to  his  joyless  cot. 
And  loathes  to  meet  his  children  there, 
The  rivals  for  his  scanty  fare; 
Oh  give  to  him  tlie  flowing  bowl  ! 
Bid  it  renovate  his  soul ! 
The  generous  juice  with  magic  power 
Shall  cheat  with  happiness  the  hour, 
And  with  each  warm  affection  fill 
The  heart  by  want  and  wretchedness  made  chill 

When,  at  the  dim  close  of  day. 
The  Captive  loves  alone  to  stray 
Along  the  haunts  recluse  and  rude 
Of  sorrow  and  of  solitude  ; 
Wlien  he  sits  with  mournful  eye 
To  mark  the  lingering  radiance  die, 
And  lets  distempered  fancy  roam 
Amid  the  ruins  of  his  home;  — 
Oh  give  to  him  the  flowing  bowl ! 
Bid  it  renovate  his  soul  I 
The  bowl  shall  better  thoughts  bestow, 
And  lull  to  rest  his  wakeful  woe, 
And  joy  shall  gild  the  evening  hour, 
And  make  the  Captive  Fortune's  conqueror. 

When  the  wearying  cares  of  state 
Oppress  the  Monarch  with  their  weight, 
When  from  his  pomp  retired  alone 
He  feels  the  duties  of  the  throne, 
Feels  that  the  multitude  below 
Dei)end  on  him  for  weal  or  woe ; 
When  his  powerful  will  may  bless 
A  realm  with  peace  and  happiness, 
Or  with  desolating  breath 
Breathe  ruin  round,  and  woe,  and  death ; 
Oh  give  to  him  the  flowing  bowl ! 
Bid  it  humanize  his  soul  ! 
He  shall  not  feel  the  empire's  weight ; 
He  shall  not  feel  the  cares  of  state  ; 
The  bowl  shall  each  dark  thought  beguile. 
And  Nations  live  and  prosper  from  his  smile. 

Hush'd  was  the  lute,  the  Hebrew  ceased  the  song, 
Long  peals  of  plaudits  echoed  from  the  throng ; 
All  tongues  the  liberal  words  of  praise  repaid. 
On  every  cheek  a  smile  applauding  play'd  ; 
The  rival  Bard  approach'd,  he  struck  the  string, 
And  pour'd  the  lollier  song  to  Persia's  King. 

Whv  should  llie  wearying  cares  of  state 
Oppress  the  Monarch  with  their  weight? 

Alike  to  him  if  peace  shall  bless 

The  multitude  with  happiness; 



Alike  to  him  if  Irenzied  War 
Career  triuiiiphaiit  on  the  embattled  plain, 
And  rolling  on  o'er  myriads  slain, 
With  gore  and  wounds  shall  clog  his  scythed  car. 

What  though  the  tempest  rage?  no  sound 
Of  the  deep  thunder  shakes  his  distant  throne ; 
And  the  red  flash  that  spreads  destruction  round 
llellects  a  glorious  splendor  on  the  crown. 

Where  is  the  Man  who  with  ennobling  pride 
Regards  not  his  own  nature .'  where  is  he 
Who  without  awe  can  see 
The  mysteries  of  the  human  mind, 
The  miniature  of  Deity.' 
For  Man  the  vernal  clouds  descending 

Shower  down  their  fertilizing  rain  ; 
For  Man  the  ripen'd  harvest  bending 
Waves  with  soft  murmur  o'er  the  plenteous  plain. 
He  spreads  the  sail  to  catch  the  favoring  gale, 
Or  sweeps  with  oars  the  main  ; 
For  him  the  winds  of  heaven  subservient  blow, 
Earth  teems  for  him,  for  him  the  waters  flow. 
He  thinks,  and  wills,  and  acts,  a  Deity  below  ! 

Where  is  the  King  who  with  elating  pride 
Sees  not  this  Man,  this  godlike  Man  his  slave  'I 
Mean  are  the  mighty  by  the  Monarch's  side  ; 
Alike  the  wise,  alike  the  brave 
With  timid  step  and  pale,  advance, 
And  tremble  at  the  royal  glance  ; 
Suspended  millions  watch  his  breath. 
Whose  smile  is  happiness,  whose  frown  is  death. 

Why  goes  the  Peasant  from  that  little  cot, 

Where  Peace  and  Love  have  blest  his  humble  life  .' 

In  vain  his  wretched  wife 

With  tears  bedews  her  husband's  face. 

And  clasps  him  in  a  long  and  last  embrace ; 

In  vain  his  children  round  his  bosom  creep, 

And  weep  to  sec  their  mother  weep, 
Fettering  their  father  with  their  little  arms  ! 
What  are  to  him  the  war's  alarms  r 
What  are  to  him  the  distant  foes  .' 
Ho  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day 
To  daily  labor  went  his  way, 
And  when  he  saw  the  sun  decline. 
He  sat  in  peace  beneath  his  vine. 
The  King  commands,  the  peasant  goes, 
From  all  he  loved  on  earth  he  flies, 
And  for  his  monarch  toils,  and  fights,  and  bleeds, 
and  dies. 

What  though  yon  city's  castled  wall 
Casl  o'er  the  darken'd  plain  its  crested  shade.' 
What  though  her  Priests  in  earnest  terror  call 
On  all  their  host  of  Gods  to  aid .' 
Vain  is  the  bulwark,  vain  the  tower  ! 

In  vain  her  gallant  youth  expose 
Their  breasts,  a  bulwark,  to  the  foes  1 
In  vain  at  that  tremendous  hour, 
Clasp'd  in  the  savage  soldier's  reeking  arms. 
Shrieks  to  deaf  Heaven  the  violated  Maid  I 
By  the  rude  hand  of  Ruin  scatter'd  round. 
Their  moss-grown  towers  shall  spread  the  desert 

Low  shall  the  mouldering  palace  lie, 
Amid  the  princely  halls  the  grass  wave  high, 
And  through  the  shattcr'd  roof  descend  the  in 
clement  sky. 

Gay  o'er  the  embattled  plain 
Moves  yonder  warrior  train ; 
Their  banners  wanton  on  the  morning  gale , 
Full  on  their  bucklers  beams  the  rising  ray; 
Their  glittering  helms  give  glory  to  the  day; 
The  shout  of  war  rings  echoing  o'er  the  vale. 
Far  reaches  as  the  aching  eye  can  strain 
The  splendid  horror  of  their  wide  array 

Ah  !  not  in  vain  expectant,  o'er 
Their  glorious  pomp  the  vultures  soar  ! 
Amid  the  Conqueror's  palace  high 
Shall  sound  the  song  of  victory  ; 
Long  after  journeying  o'er  the  plain 
The  traveller  shall  with  startled  eye  [ter  sky 
See  their  white  bones  then  blanched  by  many  a  w  in 

Lord  of  the  earth  !  we  will  not  raise 
The  temple  to  thy  bounded  praise ; 
For  thee  no  victim  need  expire, 
For  thee  no  altar  blaze  with  hallow'd  fire ; 
The  burning  City  flames  for  thee, 
Thine  Altar  is  the  field  of  victory  ! 
Thy  sacred  Majesty  to  bless 
Man  a  self-ofTer'd  victim  freely  flies; 

To  thee  he  sacrifices  happiness. 
And  peace,  and  Love's  endearing  ties ; 
To  thee  a  Slave  he  lives,  for  thee  a  Slave  he  dies. 

liush'd  was  the  lute,  the  Hebrew  ceased  to  sing; 
The  shout  burst  forth,  "  Forever  live  the  King  !  " 
Loud  was  the  uproar,  as  when  Rome's  decree 
Pronounced  Achaia  once  again  was  free  ; 
Assembled  Greece  enrapt  with  fond  belief  [Chief 
Heard  the  false  boon,  and  bless'd  the  treacherous 
Each  breast  with  freedom's  holy  ardor  glows, 
From  every  voice  the  cry  of  rapture  rose  ; 
Their  thundering  clamors  rend  the  astonished  sky. 
And  birds  o'erpassing  hear,  and  drop,  and  die. 
Thus  o'er  the  Persian  dome  their  plaudits  ring. 
And  the  high  hall  rer-choed — "  Live  the  King!  " 
The  mutes  bow'd  reverent  down  before  their  Lord, 
The  assembled  Satraps  envied  and  adored, 
Joy  sparkled  in  the  Monarch's  conscious  eyes. 
And  his  pleased  pride  already  dooni'd  the  prize. 

Silent  they  saw  Zorobabel  advance  : 
He  to  Apame  turn'd  his  timid  glance  ; 
With  downward  eye  he  paused,  a  moment  mute, 
Then  with  light  finger  touch'd  the  softer  lute. 
Apame  knew  the  Hebrew's  grateful  cause, 
And  bent  her  head,  and  sweetly  smiled  applause. 

Why  is  the  warrior's  check  so  red .' 
AVhy  downward  droops  his  musing  head  ? 
Why  that  slow  step,  that  faint  advance, 
That  keen  yet  quick  retreating  glance.' 
That  crested  head  in  war  tower'd  high  ; 
No  backward  glance  disgraced  that  eye, 
No  flushing  fear  that  check  o'erspread. 
When  stern  he  strode  o'er  heaps  of  dead  : 



Stranjje  tiumilt  now  liis  bosom  inovos, — 
The  Warrior  li-ars  because  he  loves. 

Why  does  tlie  Youth  deliglit  to  rove 
Airiid  the  dark  and  lonely  grove  ? 
Why  in  the  throng  where  all  are  gay, 
With  absent  eyes  from  gayety  distraught, 
Sits  he  alone  in  silent  thought? 

Silent  he  sits,  for  far  away 
His  passion'd  soul  delights  to  stray  ; 
Recluse  he  roves  as  if  he  fain  vpould  shun 
All  human-kind,  because  he  loves  but  One  I 

Yes,  King  of  Persia,  thou  art  blest! 

But  not  because  the  sparkling  bowl 

To  rapture  elevates  tiiy  waken'd  soul ; 

But  not  because  of  power  possest ; 

Nor  that  the  Nations  dread  thy  nod. 
And  princes  reverence  thee  their  earthly  God  ! 
Even  on  a  monarch's  solitude 
Will  Care,  dark  visitant,  intrude  ; 

The  bowl  brief  pleasure  can  bestow  ; 

The  purple  cannot  shield  from  woe ; 

But,  King  of  Persia,  thou  art  blest, 
For  Heaven  who  raised  thee  thus  the  world  above, 
Hath  made  thee  happy  in  Apame's  love! 

Oh  !  I  have  seen  him  fondly  trace 
Tlie  heavenly  features  of  her  face, 
Rove  o'er  her  form  with  eager  eye, 
And  sigh  and  gaze,  and  gaze  and  sigh. 
See !  from  his  brow  with  mimic  frown 
Apame  takes  the  sacred  crown ; 
Those  sparkling  eyes,  that  radiant  face, 
Give  to  the  diadem  new  grace  : 
And  subject  to  a  Woman's  laws, 
Darius  sees,  and  smiles  applause  I 

He  ceased,  and  silent  still  remain'd  the  throng, 
Wliile  rapt  attention  own'd  the  power  of  song. 
Then,  loud  as  when  the  wintry  whirlwinds  blow, 
From  every  voice  the  thundering  plaudits  flow  ; 
Darius  smiled,  Apame's  sparkling  eyes 
Glanced  on  the  King,  and  Woman  won  the  prize. 

Now  silent  sate  the  expectant  crowd  :  Alone 
The  victor  Hebrew  gazed  not  on  the  throne  ; 
With  deeper  hue  his  cheek  distemper'd  glows, 
With  statelier  stature  loftier  now  he  rose  ; 
Heavenward  he  gazed,  regardless  of  the  throng, 
And  pour'd  with  awful  voice  sublimer  song. 

"Ancient  of  days!  Eternal  Truth  !  one  hymn, 
One  holier  strain  the  Bard  shall  raise  to  Thee, 
Thee  Powerful !  Thee  Benevolent !  Thee  Just ! 
Friend!    Father!    All  in  all!— The   Vine's   rich 
hlood,  [charms, 

The  Monarch's  might,  and  Woman's  conquering 
These  shall  we  praise  alone  .'  —  O  ye  who  sit 
Beneath  your  vine,  and  quaff  at  evening  hour 
The  healthful  bowl,  remember  Him  whose  dews, 
Whose  rains,  whose  sun,  matured  the  growing  fruit. 
Creator  and  Preserver!  —  Reverence  Him, 
O  Thou  who  from  thy  throne  dispensest  life 
And  death,  for  He  hath  delegated  power, 

And  thou  siialt  one  dav  at  the  throne  of  God 

Render  thy  strict  account!  —  And  ye  who  gaze 

Enrapt  on  Beauty's  fascinating  form. 

Gaze  on  with  love  ;  and  loving  beauty,  learn 

'J\)  shun  abhorrent  all  the  menUil  eye 

Beholds  dcform'd  and  foul ;  for  so  shall  Love 

Climb  to  the  source  of  goodness.     God  of  Truth  I 

All  Just!  All  Mighty  !  I  should  ill  deserve 

Thy  noblest  gift,  the  gift  divine  of  song, 

11",  so  content  with  ear-deep  melodies 

To  please  all-profitless,  I  did  not  pour 

Severer  strains,  —  of  Truth  —  eternal  Truth, 

Unchanging  Justice,  universal  Love. 

Such  strains  awake  the  Soul  to  loftiest  thoughts  ; 

Such  strains  the  blessed  Spirits  of  the  Good 

Waft,  grateful  incense,  to  the  Halls  of  Heaven." 

The  dying  notes  still  murmur'd  on  the  string, 
When  from  his  throne  arose  the  raptured  King. 
About  to  speak  he  stood,  and  waved  his  hand. 
And  all  expectant  sate  the  obedient  band. 

Then  just  and  generous,  thus  the  Monarch  cries, 
"Be  thine,  Zorobabcl,  the  well-earn'd  prize. 
The  purple  robe  of  state  thy  form  shall  fold. 
The  beverage  sparkle  in  thy  cup  of  gold, 
The  golden  couch,  the  car,  and  honor'd  chain, 
Requite  the  merits  of  thy  favor'd  strain, 
And  raised  supreme  the  ennobled  race  among. 
Be  call'd  My  Cousin  for  the  victor  song. 
Nor  these  alone  the  victor  song  shall  bless  ; 
Ask  what  tliou  wilt,  and  what  lliou  wilt  possess." 

"Fallen  is  Jerusalem  !  "  the  Hebrew  cries, 
And  patriot  anguish  fills  his  streaming  eyes, 
"  Hurl'd  to  the  earth  by  Rapine's  vengeful  rod, 
Polluted  lies  the  temple  of  our  God  ; 
Far  in  a  foreign  land  her  sons  remain, 
Hear  the  keen  taunt,  and  drag  the  galling  chain  ; 
In  fruitless  woe  they  wear  the  weary  years, 
And  steep  the  bread  of  bitterness  in  tears. 
O  Monarch,  greatest,  mildest,  best  of  men. 
Restore  us  to  those  ruin'd  walls  again  ' 
Allow  us  to  rebuild  that  sacred  dome. 
To  live  in  liberty,  and  die  at  Home." 

So  spake  Zorobabel.  — Thus  Woman's  praise 
Avail'd  again  Jerusalem  to  raise, 
Call'd  forth  the  sanction  of  the  Despot's  nod, 
And  freed  the  Nation  best  beloved  of  God. 

Bri.rton  Caitsewaij,  1793. 



Twenty  years  a^o,  upon  the  surrrptitioiis  ptihlication  of  this 
notahic  Driima,  ami  the  use  which  was  made  of  it,  I  said 
what  it  tli'.ii  lieiame  nie  to  say  in  a  letter  to  one  of  those 
gentlemen  who  thoii:.'lit  proper  to  revile  mc,  not  for  having 
enlertainefl  deniorratien!  opinions,  hut  lor  having  outgrown 
them,  and  learnt  to  appreciate  and  to  defend  the  institutions 
of  my  country. 



Had  I  wriitiii  lewilly  in  my  youth,  like  licza, —  like  Ik-za,  I 
would  ask  pardon  of  God  and  iiiuii  ;  and  no  considerations 
should  in<luco  ine  to  reprint  what  I  coulil  never  think  of 
without  sorrow  and  shame.  Had  1  at  any  tin\e,  like  St. 
Augustine,  taught  dot'trines  whieh  I  afterwards  perceived 
to  be  erroneous,  —  and  if,  as  in  his  cuso,  my  position  in 
society, and  the  estimation  in  which  I  was  held,  gave  weight 
to  what  I  had  advanced,  and  made  those  errors  dangerous  to 
others,  —  like  St.  .\ugustine,  I  would  publish  uiy  retrac- 
tations, and  endeavor  to  counteract  t!ie  evil  which,  though 
erringly,  with  no  evil  intention,  I  had  caused. 

Wherefore  then,  it  may  be  asked,  have  I  included  Wat  Tyler 
in  this  authentic  collection  of  my  poetical  works  ?  For 
these  reasons,  —  that  it  may  not  be  supposed  1  think  it  any 
reproach  to  h.ive  written  it,  or  that  I  am  more  ashamed  of 
having  been  a  republican,  than  of  having  been  a  boy.  Qiii- 
ciinqiie  ista  lectitri  s'lnty  jioii  me  imitnitur  erranteni, scd  in  vulitu-< 
j)roficieiitcm.  Ineenut  ciiimfurlasse,  quumodu  ncriheiido  pro- 
ftccrhn,  quisqais  opitscula  mea,  ordiiie  quo  scripla  sunt, 

1  have  endeavored  to  correct  in  my  other  juvenile  pieces  such 
faults  as  were  corrigible.  Uut  Wat  Tyler  a])pears  just  as 
it  was  written,  in  the  course  of  three  mornings,  in  179-1 ; 
the  stolen  copy,  which  was  committed  to  the  press  twenty- 
three  years  afterwards,  not  having  undergone  the  slightest 
correction  of  any  kind. 

ACT  1. 

Scene.     A     Blacksmith's    shop;     Wat     Tyler     at 
work  within;  a  May-pole  before  the  door. 

Alice,  Piers,  &c. 


Cheerful  on  this  holiday, 
Welcome  we  the  merry  May. 

On  every  sunny  hillock  spread, 
The  pale  primrose  lifts  her  head ; 
llich  with  sweets,  the  western  gale 
Sweeps  along  the  cowslip'd  dale  ; 
Every  bank,  with  violets  gay, 
Smiles  to  welcome  in  the  May. 

The  linnet  from  tlie  budding  grove 
Chirps  her  vernal  song  of  love. 
The  copse  resounds  the  throstle's  notes  ; 
On  each  wild  gale  sweet  music  floats ; 
And  melody  from  every  spray 
Welcomes  in  the  merry  May. 

Cheerful  on  this  holiday. 

Welcome  we  the  merry  May.  [Dance. 

[During  the  thmce,  Tyler  lays  down  his  hammer, 
and  sits  mournfully  down  before  the  door. 

Hob  Carter.    Why  so   sad,  neiglibor  ?  —  do  not 
these  gay  sports, 
This  revelry  of  youth,  recall  the  days 
When  we  too  mingled  in  the  revelry. 
And  lightly  tripping  in  the  morris  dance. 
Welcomed  the  merry  month .' 

Tyler.  Ay,  we  were  young ; 

No  cares  had  quell'd  the  heyday  of  the  blood ; 
We  sported  deftly  in  the  April  morning, 

*  St.  Augustine. 

Nor  mark'd  the  black  clouds  gathering  o'er  our 
Nor  fear'd  the  storm  of  night.  [noon, 

Hob.  Beshrew  me,  Tyler, 

But  my  heart  joys  to  see  the  imps  so  clieerful ! 
Young,  hale,  and  hapj)y,  why  should  they  destroy 
These  blessings  by  reflection  .' 

Tyler.  Look  ye,  neighbor  — 

You  have  known  me  long. 

Hob.  Since  we  were  boys  together, 

And  play'd  at  barley-brake,  and  danced  the  niorr'-**. 
Some  five-and-twunty  years  ! 

Tyler.  Was  not  /  young. 

And  hale,  and  happy  .' 

Hob.   Cheerful  as  the  best.  [man  ? 

Tyler.    Have  not  I  been  a  staid,  hard-working 
Up  with  the  lark  at  labor ;  sober,  honest. 
Of  an  unbleinish'd  character .' 

Hob.  Who  doubts  it .' 

There's  never  a  man  in  Essex  bears  a  better. 

Tyler.   And  shall  not  these,  though  young,  and 
hale,  and  happy, 
Look  on  with  sorrow  to  the  future  hour  ? 
Shall  not  reflection  poison  all  their  pleasures .-' 
When  1  —  the  honest,  staid,  hard-v.forking  Tyler, 
Toil  through  the  long  course  of  the  summer's  day, 
Still  toiling,  yet  still  poor !  when  with  hard  labor 
Scarce  can  1  furnish  out  my  daily  food. 
And  age  comes  on  to  steal  away  my  strength, 
And  leave  me  poor  and  wretched  !     Why  should 

this  be .' 
My  youth  was  regular  —  my  labor  constant  — 
I  married  an  industrious,  virtuous  woman ; 
Nor  while  1  toil'd  and  sweated  at  the  anvil, 
Sat  she  neglectful  of  her  spinning-wheel. 
Hob  !  1  have  only  six  groats  in  the  world, 
And  they  must  soon  by  law  be  taken  from  me. 

Hob.   Curse  on  these  taxes  —  one  succeeds  an 
other  — 
Our  ministers,  panders  of  a  king's  will. 
Drain  all  our  wealth  away,  waste  it  in  revels. 
And  lure,  or  force  away  our  boys,  who  should  be 
The  props  of  our  old  age,  to  fill  their  armies. 
And  feed  the  crows  of  France.    Year  follows  year, 
And  still  we  madly  prosecute  the  war ; 
Draining  our  wealth,  distressing  our  poor  jx-asants. 
Slaughtering  our  youths  —  and  all  to  crown  our 

With  glory  !  —  I  detest  the  hell-sprung  name. 

Tyler.   What  matters  me  who  wears  the  crown 
of  France  ? 
Whether  a  Richard  or  a  Charles  possess  it  ? 
They  reap  the  glory  —  they  enjoy  the  spoil  — 
We  pay  —  we  bleed!     The   sun  would  shine   as 
The  rains  of  heaven  as  seasonably  fall,     [chcerly. 
Though  neither  of  these  royal  pests  existed. 

Hob.    Nay,  as  for  that,  we  poor  men  should  faro 
better ; 
No  legal  robbers  then  should  force  away 
The  hard-earn'd  wages  of  our  honest  toll. 
The  Parliament  forever  cries  more  money ; 
The  service  of  the  state  demands  more  money. 
Just  lieaven !  of  what  service  is  the  state  ? 

Tyler.    Oh,  'tis  of  vast  imi)ortance  !  who  should 
The  luxuries  and  riots  of  the  court?  [pay  for 

Who  should  support  the  flaunting  courtier's  pride, 



Pay  for  tlieir  inidni<rlit  revels,  their  garments, 
Did  not  the  state  enforce  r  —  Tliink  ye,  my  friend, 
That  I,  a  humble  blacksmith,  here  at  Deptford, 
Would  part  with  these  six  groats  —  earn'd  by  hard 

All  that  1  have  !  to  massacre  the  Frenchmen, 

Murder  as  enemies  men  I  never  saw  I 

Did  not  the  state  compel  me  ? 

( T,ix-<Tatlicrcrs  pass  by.)  There  they  go, 

Privileged  ruffians  I   [Piers  ^  .Uicc  advance  to  /tiin. 

Mice.    Did  we  not  dance  it  well  to-day,  my  fa- 
ther ? 
Vou  know  I  always  loved  these  village  sports. 
Even  from  my  infancy,  and  yet  methinks 
I  never  tripp'd  along  the  mead  so  gayly. 
You  know  they  chose  me  queen,  and  your  friend 

Wreathed  me  tliis  cowslip  garland  for  my  head  — 
Is  it  not  simple  ?  —  You  are  sad,  my  father  ! 
You  should  have  rested  from  your  work  to-day, 
And  given  a  few  hours  up  to  merriiuent  — 
But  you  are  so  serious  ! 

Tyler.  Serious,  my  good  girl ! 

I  may  well  be  so  :  when  I  look  at  thee. 
It  makes  me  sad !  thou  art  too  fair  a  flower 
To  bear  the  wintry  wind  of  poverty. 

Piers.    Yd   I    have    often   heard  you  speak  of 
Even  with  contempt ;  they  cannot  purchase  peace. 
Or  innocence,  or  virtue  ;  sounder  sleep 
Waits  on  the  weary  ploughman's  lowly  bed. 
Than  on  the  downy  couch  of  luxury 
Lulls  the  rich  slave  of  pride  and  indolence. 
I  never  wish  for  wealth  ;  my  arm  is  strong. 
And  I  can  purchase  by  it  a  coarse  meal. 
And  hunger  savors  it. 

Tyler.  Y'oung  man,  thy  mind 

Has  yet  to  learn  the  hard  lesson  of  experience. 
Thou  art  yet  young  :  the  blasting  breath  of  want 
Has  not  yet  froze  the  current  of  thy  blood. 

Piers.   Fare  not  the  birds  well,  as  from  spray  to 
Blithesome  they  bound,  yet  find  their  simple  food 
Scatter'd  abundantly  .'' 

Tyler.    No  fancied  boundaries  of  mine  and  thine 
Restrain  their  wanderings.     Nature  gives  enougii 
For  all ;  but  Man,  with  arrogant  selfishness. 
Proud  of  liis  heaps,  hoards  up  superfluous  stores 
Hobb'd  from  his  weaker  fellows,  starves  tlie  poor. 
Or  gives  to  pity  what  he  owes  to  justice  ! 

Piers.    So  I   have   heard  our  good  friend   John 
Ball  preach.  [prison'd  .' 

Alice.    My  father,  wherefore  was  John  Ball  im- 
Was  he  not  charitable,  good,  and  pious  ? 
1  have  heard  him  say  that  all  mankind  arc  brethren. 
And  that  like  brethren  they  should  love  each  other  ; 
Was  not  that  doctrine  pious  ? 

Tyler.  Rank  sedition  — 

High  treason,  every  syllable,  my  child  ! 
The  priests  cry  out  on  him  for  heresy, 
The  nobles  all  detest  him  as  a  rebel. 
And  this  good  man,  this  minister  of  Christ, 
This  man,  the  friend  and  brother  of  mankind, 
Lingers  in  the  dark  dungeon  I  —  My  dear  Alice, 
Retire  awhile.  [Exit  Mice. 

Piers,  I  would  speak  to  thee, 
Even  with  a  fiither's  love  !  you  are  much  with  me, 
And  1  believe  do  court  my  conversation  ; 
Thou  could'st  not  choose  thee  forth  a  truer  friend. 
I  would  liiin  see  tliie  haj>py,  but  1  iear 
Thy  very  virtues  will  destroy  thy  peace. 
My  daughter  —  she  is  young  —  not  yet  fifteen  : 
Piers,  thou  art  generous,  and  thy  youthful  heart 
Warm  with  afiection;  this  close  intimacy 
Will  ere  long  grow  to  love. 

Piers.  Suppose  it  so ; 

Were  that  an  evil,  Walter.'     She  is  mild. 
And  clieerful,  and  industrious  :  —  now  methinks 
With  such  a  partner  life  would  be  most  happy  ! 
Why  would  ye  warn  me  then  of  wretchedness ' 
Is  there  an  evil  that  can  harm  our  lot.' 
I  have  been  told  the  virtuous  must  be  happy, 
And  have  believed  it  true :  tell  me,  my  friend. 
What  shall  disturb  the  virtuous  .' 

Tyler.  Poverty, 

A  bitter  foe. 

Piers.  Nay,  you  have  often  told  me 

That  happiness  does  not  consist  in  riches. 

Tyler.    It  is  most  true  ;  but  tell  me,  my  dear  boy, 
Could'st  thou  be  happy  to  behold  thy  wife 
Pining  with  want.'  the  children  of  your  loves 
Clad  in  the  squalid  rags  of  wretchedness.' 
And,  when  thy  hard  and  unremitting  toil 
Had  earn'd  with  pain  a  scanty  recompense, 
Could'st  thou  be  patient  when  the  law  should  rob 

And  leave  thee  without  bread,  and  penniless  .' 

Piers.  It  is  a  dreadful  picture. 

Tyler.  'Tis  a  true  one. 

Piers.    But  yet  methinks  our  sober  industry 
Might  drive  away  the  danger  !  'tis  but  little 
That  I  could  wish ;  food  for  our  frugal  meals. 
Raiment,  however  homely,  and  a  bed 
To  shield  us  from  the  night. 

Tyler.  1"hy  honest  reason 

Could  wish  no  more  ;  but  were  it  not  most  wretched 
To  want  the  coarse  food  for  the  frugal  ineal .' 
And  by  the  orders  of  your  merciless  lord. 
If  you  by  chance  were  guilty  of  being  poor, 
To  be  turn'd  out  adrift  to  the  bleak  world. 
Unhoused,  unfriended.'  —  Piers,  I  have  not  been 

1  never  ate  tlie  bread  of  indolence  ; 
Could  Alice  be  more  thrifty  than  her  mother.' 
Yet  with  but  one  child,  —  and  that  one  how  good. 
Thou  knowest,  —  I  scarcely  can  provide  the  wants 
Of  nature  :  look  at  these  wolves  of  the  law. 
They  come  to  drain  me  of  my  hard-earn'd  wages. 
I  have  already  paid  the  heavy  tax 
Laid  on  the  wool  that  clothes  me,  on  my  leather. 
On  all  the  needful  articles  of  life  I 
And  now-  three  groats  (and  I  work'd  hard  to  earn 

The  Parliament  demands  —  and  I  must  pay  them, 
Forsooth,  for  liberty  to  wear  my  head. 

[Enter  Tax-gatherers. 

Collector.   Three   groats    a   head   for    all   your 

Piers.   Why  is  this  money  gather'd  .'  'tis  a  hard 



On  the  j)r>or  laborer  !     It  can  never  be 
That  Government  should  thus  distress  the  people. 
Go  to  the  rich  for  money  —  honest  labor 
Ought  to  enjoy  its  fruits. 

Collector.  The  state  wants  money  ; 

War  is  expensive  —  'tis  a  glorious  war, 
A  war  of  honor,  and  must  be  supported.  — 
Three  groats  a  head. 

Tyler.  There,  three  for  my  own  head, 

Three  for  my  wife's  ;  what  will  the  state  tax  next.' 
Collector.    You  have  a  daughter. 
Tyler.   She  is  below  the  age  —  not  yet  fifteen. 
Collector.    You  would  evade  the  tax. 
Tyler.  Sir  Officer, 

I  have  j)aid  3'ou  fairly  what  the  law  demands. 
[jIUcc  and  her  motlier  enter  the  shop.     The  Tax- 
gatherers  go  to  her.     One  of  them  lays  hold  of 
her.     She  screams.  —  Tyler  goes  in. 
Collector.    You  say  she's  under  age. 
[Alice  screams  again.     Tyler  knocks  out  the  Tax- 
gatherer  s  brains.     His  companions  fy. 
Piers.   A  just  revenge.  [law 

Tyler.   Most  just  indeed;  but  in  the  eye  of  the 
'Tis  murder :  and  the  murderer's  lot  is  mine. 

[Piers  goes  out  —  Tyler  sits  down  mournfully. 
.Ilice.    Fly,  my  dear  father  !  let  us  leave  this  place 
Before  they  raise  pursuit. 

Tyler.  Nay,  nay,  my  child, 

Flio-lit  would  be  useless  —  I  have  done  my  duty  ; 
1  liave  punish'd  the  brute  insolence  of  lust, 
And  here  will  wait  my  doom. 

Wife.  Oil,  let  us  fly, 

ISly  husband,  my  dear  husband  ! 

Mice.  Quit  but  this  place, 

And  we  may  yet  be  safe,  and  happy  too. 

Tyler.    It  would  be  useless,  Alice ;  't  would  but 
A  wretched  life  in  fear. 

[Cry  7C(</iO?/<,  Liberty,  Liberty!  Enter  Mob,  Hob 
Carter,   c^-c.    crying   Liberty !    Liberty !    No 
Foil-tax  I     No  War  ! 
Hub.    We  have  broke  our  chains ;  we  will  arise 
in  anger ; 
The  mighty  multitude  shall  trample  down 
The  handful  that  oppress  them. 

Tyler.  Have  ye  heard 

So  soon  then  of  my  murder  .' 

Hob.  Of  your  vengeance. 

Piers  ran  throughout  tlie  village  :  told  the  news  — 
Cried  out,  To  arms  !  —  arm,  arm  for  liberty  ; 
For  Liberty  and  Justice  ! 

Tyler.  My  good  friends. 

Heed  well  your  danger,  or  be  resolute  ! 
Learn  to  laugh  menaces  and  force  to  scorn. 
Or  leave  me.     I  dare  answer  the  bold  deed  — 
Death  must  come  once  :  return  ye  to  your  homes. 
Protect  my  wife  and  child,  and  on  my  grave 
Write  why  I  died  ;  perhaps  the  time  may  come. 
When  honest  Justice  shall  applaud  the  deed. 
Hob.    Nay,  nay,  we  are  oppress'd,  and  have  too 
Knelt  at  our  proud  lords'  feet;  we  have  too  long 
Obey'd  their  orders,  bow'd  to  their  caprices. 
Sweated  for  them  the  wearying  summer's  day. 
Wasted  for  them  the  wages  of  our  toil, 

Fought  for  them,  conquer'd  for  them,  bled  for  them, 
Still  to  be  trampled  on,  and  still  despised  ! 
But  we  have  broke  our  chains. 

Tom  Miller.  Piers  is  gone  on 

Through  all  the  neighboring  villages,  to  spread 
The  glorious  tidings. 

Hob.  He  is  hurried  on 

To  Maidstone,  to  deliver  good  John  Ball, 
Our  friend,  our  shepherd.  [Mob  increases- 

Tyler.  Friends  and  countrymen. 

Will  ye  then  rise  to  save  an  honest  man 
From  the  fierce  clutches  of  the  bloody  law  ' 
Oh,  do  not  call  to  mind  my  private  wrongs,     [me. 
That  the  state  drain'd  m}'  hard-earn'd  pittance  from 
Tliat,  of  his  office  proud,  tlie  foul  Collector 
Durst  with  lewd  hand  seize  on  my  darling  child. 
Insult  her  maiden  modesty,  and  force 
.\  fiither's  hand  to  vengeance  ;  heed  not  this ; 
Tliink  not,  my  countrymen,  on  private  wrongs  ; 
Remember  what  yourselves  have  long  endured; 
Think  of"  the  insults,  wrongs,  and  contumelies, 
Ye  bear  from  your  proud  lords  —  that  your  hard  toil 
Manures  their  fertile  fields  —  you  plough  the  eartli. 
You  sow  the  corn,  you  reap  tlie  ripen'd  harvest,  — 
They  riot  on  the  produce  !  —  that,  like  beasts. 
They  sell  you  with  their  land,  claim  all  the  fruits 
Which  the  kindly  earth  produces,  as  their  own. 
The  privilege,  forsooth,  of  noble  birth! 
On,  on  to  freedom  ;  feel  but  your  own  strength. 
Be  but  resolved,  and  these  destructive  tyrants 
Shall  shrink  before  your  vengeance. 

Hob.  On  to  London,  — 

The  tidings  fly  before  us  —  the  court  trembles,  — 
Liberty  —  Vengeance  —  Justice. 

ACT    II. 

Scene  I.     Blackheath. 
Tyler,  Hob,  &c. 


'  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  .' ' 

Wretched  is  the  infant's  lot. 
Born  within  the  straw-roof'd  cot; 
Be  he  generous,  wise,  or  brave, 
He  must  only  be  a  slave. 
Long,  long  labor,  little  rest. 
Still  to  toil  to  be  oppress'd ; 
Drain'd  by  taxes  of  his  store, 
Punish'd  next  for  being  poor  : 
This  is  the  poor  wretch's  lot, 
Born  within  the  straw-roofd  cot. 

While  the  peasant  works,  —  to  sleep, 
What  the  peasant  sows,  —  to  reap. 
On  the  couch  of  ease  to  lie, 
Ptioting  in  revelry ; 
Be  he  villain,  be  he  fool. 
Still  to  hold  despotic  rule, 
Trampling  on  his  slaves  with  scorn ' 
This  is  to  be  nobly  born. 

W^T    TYLER. 


'  WIuMi  Adam  ili^lvcd  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  llii'ii  the  ircntlenian?  ' 

Jack  Straw.    Tlu^  mob  arc  up  in   London  —  tlio 
proud  courtiers 
Bi'ijin  to  tremble. 

Tom  Miller.  A3',  ay,  'tis  time  to  tremble  : 

WhoU  plough  their  fields,  who'll  do  their  drud- 
gery now, 
And  work  like  liorses  to  give  them  the  harvest? 
Jack  Straw,    i  only  wonder  why  we  lay  quiet  so 
We     had    always    the    same    strength ;    and    wo 

The  ills  we  met  with  for  not  using  it. 

II lb.    Why  do  we  fear  those  animals  call'd  lords .' 
What  is  there  in  the  name  to  frighten  us .' 
Is  not  my  arm  as  mighty  as  a  Baron's  ? 

Enter  Piers  and  Joii.n  Ball. 

Piers,    {to  Tyler.)    Have    1     done     well,     my 
father .'  1  remember'd 
This  good  man  lay  in  prison. 

Tyler.  JNIy  dear  child, 

Most  well ;  the  people  rise  for  liberty. 
And  their  first  deed  should  be  to  break  the  chains 
That  binds  the  virtuous  ;  —  Oh,  thou  honest  priest, 
How  much  hast  thou  endured  ! 

John  Ball.  Why,  ay,  my  friend ! 

These  squalid  rags  bespeak  what  I  have  suffered. 
I  was  reviled,  insulted,  left  to  languish 
In  a  damp  dungeon  ;  but  1  bore  it  cliccrily  — 
My  heart  was  glad —  for  I  had  done  my  duty. 
I  pitied  my  oppressors,  and  I  sorrow'd 
For  the  poor  men  of  England. 

Tyler.  They  have  felt 

Their  strength:  look  round  this  heath  ;  'tis  throng'd 

with  men 
Ardent  for  freedom  :  mighty  is  the  event 
That  waits  their  fortune. 

John  Ball.  I  would  fain  address  them. 

Tyler.     Do  so,  my  friend,  and  preach  to  tliem 
their  duty. 
Remind  them  of  their  long-withholden  rights. 
What  ho  !  there  ;  silence  ! 

Piers.  Silence,  tliere,  my  friends  ; 

This  good  man  would  address  you. 

Hob.  Ay,  ay,  hear  him  ;, 

He  is  no  mealy-mouth'd  court-orator. 
To  flatter  vice,  and  pamper  lordly  pride. 

John  Ball.     Friends,  brethren  !  for  ye  are    my 
brethren  all ; 
Englishmen,  met  in  arms  to  advocate 
The  cause  of  freedom,  hear  me  ;  pause  awhile 
In  the  career  of  vengeance!  —  It  is  true 
I  am  a  priest,  but,  as  these  rags  may  speak. 
Not  one  who  riots  in  the  poor  man's  spoil, 
Or  trades  with  his  religion.     I  am  one 
W^lu)  preach  the  law  of  Christ;  and,  in  my  life. 
Would  practise  what  he  taught.     The  Son  of  God 
Came  not  to  you  in  power:  humble  in  mien, 
fiOwly  in  heart,  the  man  of  Nazareth 
Preach'd  mercy,  justice,  love  :  "  Woe  unto  ye, 
Ye  that  are  rich  :  if  that  ye  would  be  saved. 
Sell  that  ye  have,  and  give  unto  the  poor." 

So  taught  the  Savior.    Oh,  my  honest  friends. 

Have  ye  not  felt  the  strong,  indignant  throb 

Of  justice  in  your  bosoms,  to  behold 

The  lordly  Baron  feasting  on  your  spoils  .' 

Have  you  not  in  your  hearts  arraign'd  the  lot 

That  gave  hup  on  the  couch  of  lu.xury 

To  pillow  his  head,  and  pass  the  festive  day 

In  sportive  feasts,  and  ease,  and  revelry.' 

Have  you  not  often  in  3'our  conscience  ask'd. 

Why  istho  ditference  ;  wherefore  should  that  man. 

No  worthier  than  myself,  thus  lord  it  over  me, 

.\nd  bid  me  labor,  and  enjoy  the  fruits? 

Tiie  God  within  your  breasts  has  argued  thus  : 

The  voice  of  truth  has  murmur'd.     Came  ye  not 

As  helpless  to  the  world?     Shines  not  the  sun 

With  equal  ray  on  both  ?     Do  ye  not  feel 

The  self-same  wind.s  of  heaven  as  keenly  parch  ye  ? 

Abundant  is  the  earth  —  the  Sire  of  all 

Saw  and  pronounced  that  it  was  very  good. 

Look   round  :  the    vernal   fields   smile   with  new 

The  budding  orchard  perfumes  the  sweet  breeze. 
And  the  green  corn  waves  to  the  passing  gale. 
There  is  enough  for  all ;  but  your  proud  Baron 
Stands  up,  and,  arrogant  of  strength,  exclaims, 
"  I  am  a  Lord  — by  nature  I  am  noble  : 
These  fields  are  mine,  for  I  was  born  to  them ; 
I  was  born  in  the  castle  —  you,  poor  wretches, 
Whelp'd  in  the  cottage,  are  by  birth  my  slaves." 
Almighty  God !  such  blasphemies  are  utter'd  : 
Almighty  God  !  such  blasphemies  believed  I 

Turn.  Miller.     This  is  something  like  a  sermon. 

Jack  Straic.  Where's  the  bishop 

Would  tell  you  truths  like  these  ?  [apostles 

Hob.     There   never  was  a  bishop  among  all  the 

John  Ball.     My  brethren 

Piers.  Silence  ;  the  good  priest  speaks 

John  Ball.     My  brethren,  these  are   truths,  and 
weighty  ones ; 
Ye  are  all  equal :  nature  made  ye  so. 
Equality  is  j-our  birthright. — When  I  gaze 
On  the  proud  palace,  and  behold  one  man 
In  the  blood-purpled  robes  of  royalt}'. 
Feasting  at  ease,  and  lording  over  millions, 
Then  turn  me  to  the  hut  of  poverty. 
And  see  the  wretched  laborer,  worn  with  toil. 
Divide  his  scanty  morsel  with  his  infants, 
I  sicken,  and,  indignant  at  the  sight, 
"  Blush  for  the  patience  of  humanity." 

Jack  Straic.     We  will  assert  our  rights. 

Tom  Miller.  We'll  trample  down 

These  insolent  oppressors. 

John  Ball.  In  good  truth. 

Ye  have  cause  for  anger :  but,  my  honest  friends. 
Is  it  revenge  or  justice  that  ye  seek  ? 

Mob.  Justice  I  Justice  ' 

John  Ball.     Oh,  then  remember  mercy  ; 
And  though  your  proud  oppressors  spare  not  you. 
Show  you  excel  them  in  humanity. 
They  will  use  every  art  to  disunite  you  ; 
To  conquer  separately,  by  stratagem. 
Whom  in  a  mass  they  fear  ;  —  but  be  ye  firm  ; 
Boldly  demand  your  long-forgotten  rights. 
Your  sacred,  your  inalienable  freedom. 
Be  bold  —  be  resolute  —  be  merciful 



And  while  you  spurn  the  hated  name  of  slaves, 
Show  you  are  men. 

Mob.  Long  live  our  honest  priest. 

Jack  Strata.     He  shall  be  made  archbishop. 

John  Ball.     My  brethren,  1  am  plain  John  Ball, 
your  friend,  g 

Your  equal  :  by  the  law  of  Christ  enjoin'd 
To  serve  you,  not  command. 

Jack  Straw.  March  we  for  London. 

Tyicr.  Mark  me,  my  friends  —  we  rise  for  Lib- 
Justice  shall  be  our  guide  :  let  no  man  dare 
To  plunder  in  the  tumult. 

Mob.  Lead  us  on.     Liberty  !  Justice  ! 

[Exeunt,  toith  cries  of  Liberty  !  No   Poll-tax  ! 
No  War. 

Scene    IL      The  Toicer. 

King    Richard,    Archbishop    of    Canterbury, 
Sir  John  Tresilian,  Walworth,  Philpot. 

King.     What  must  we  do  ?  the  danger  grows 
more  imminent. 
The  mob  increases. 

Philpot.  Every  moment  brings 

Fresh  tidings  of  our  peril. 

King.  It  were  well 

To  grant  them  what  they  ask. 

.Archbishop.  Ay,  that,  my  liege 

Were  politic.     Go  boldly  forth  to  meet  them, 
Grant  all  they  ask —  however  wild  and  ruinous  — 
Meantime,  the  troops  you  have  already  suinmon'd 
Will  gather  round  them.    Then  my  Christian  power 
Absolves  you  of  your  promise.  [the  rabble 

Walworth.  Were  but  their  ringleaders  cut  off, 
Would  soon  disperse. 

Philpot.  United  in  a  mass. 

There's  nothing  can  resist  them  —  once  divide  them. 
And  they  will  fall  an  easy  sacrifice.  [them  fair. 

Archbishop.  Lull    them  by    promises  —  bespeak 
Go  forth,  my  liege  —  spare  not,  if  need  requires 
A  solemn  oath  to  ratify  the  treaty. 

King.  I  dread  their  fury. 

.Archbishop.  'Tis  a  needless  dread  ; 

There  is  divinity  about  your  person  ; 
It  is  the  sacred  privilege  of  Kings, 
Howe'er  they  act,  to  render  no  accftunt 
To  man.     The  people  have  been  taught  this  lesson, 
Nor  can  they  soon  forget  it. 

King.  1  will  go  — 

I  will  submit  to  every  thing  they  ask  ; 
My  day    of  triumph   will  arrive  at  last.  [Shouts 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.  The  mob  are  at  the  city  gates. 

.Archbishop.  Hasts  !  Haste  ! 

Address  them  ere  too  late.     I'll  remain  here. 
For  they  detest  me  much.  [Shouts  again. 

Enter  another  Messenger 

Mess.  The  Londoners  have  open'd  the  city  gates ; 
The  rebels  are  admitted.  [mayor. 

King.  Fear  then  must  give  me  courage.  My  lord 
Come  you  with  me.  [Exeunt.     Shouts  without. 

Scene  HI.     Smithjicld. 

Wat  Tyler,  John  Ball,  Piers,  ^'C  Mob. 

Piers.  So  far  triumphant  are   we.     How   these 
These  petty  tyrants,  who  so  long  oppress'd  us. 
Shrink  at  the  first  resistance  ! 

Ilob.  They  were  powerful 

Only  because  we  fondly  thought  them  so. 
Where  is  Jack  Straw  .-' 

Tyler.  Jack  Straw  is  gone  to  the  Tower 

To  seize  the  king,  and  so  to  end  resistance. 

John  Ball.  It   was  well  judged  ;  fain    would    I 
spare  the  shedding 
Of  human  blood  :  gain  we  that  royal  puppet, 
And  all  will  follow  fairly  ;  deprived  of  him, 
The  nobles  lose  their  pretext,  nor  will  dare 
Rebel  against  the  people's  majesty. 

Enter  Herald. 

Herald.  Richard  the  Second,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
Of  England,  Ireland,  France,  and  Scotland,  King, 
And  of  the  town  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
Would  parley  with  Wat  Tyler. 

Tyler.  Let  him  know 

Wat  Tyler  is  in  Smithfield.  [Exit  Herald .]  —  I  will 

With  this  young  monarch  :  as  he  comes  to  me, 
Trusting  my  honor,  on  your  lives  I  charge  you 
Let  none  attempt  to  harm  him. 

John  Ball.  The  faith  of  courts 

Is  but  a  weak  dependence.     You  are  honest  — 
And  better  is  it  even  to  die  the  victim 
Of  credulous  honesty,  than  live  preserved 
By  the  cold  policy  that  still  suspects. 

Enter  King,  Walworth,  Philpot,  <^c. 

King.  I  would  speak  to  thee,  Wat  Tyler  :  bid 
Retire  awhile.  [the  mob 

Piers.  Nay,  do  not  go  alone  — 

Let  me  attend  you. 

Tyler.  Wherefore  should  I  fear.' 

Am  I  not  arm'd  with  a  just  cause  .'     Retire, 
And  I  will  boldly  plead  the  cause  of  Freedom. 


King.  Tyler,  why  l)ave  you  kill'd  my  officer. 
And  led  my  honest  subjects  from  their  homes. 
Thus  to  rebel  against  the  Lord's  anointed .' 

Tyler.  Because  they  were  oppress'd. 

King.  Was  this  the  way 

To  remedy  the  ill .'     You  should  have  tried 
By  milder  means  —  petition'd  at  the  throne  — 
The  throne  will  always  listen  to  petitions. 

Tyler.  King  of  England, 

Petitioning  for  pity  is  most  weak  — 
The  sovereign  people  ought  to  demand  justice. 
I  kill'd  your  officer,  for  his  lewd  hand 
Insulted  a  maid's  modesty.     Your  subjects 
I  lead  to  rebel  against  the  Lord's  anointed. 
Because  his  ministers  have  made  him  odious  ; 
His  yoke  is  heavy,  and  his  burden  grievous. 
Why  do  we  carry  on  this  fatal  war, 
To  force  upon  the  French  a  king  they  hate. 
Tearing  our  young  men  from  their  peaceful  homes, 



Forcing   liis    liard-eani'd    fruits   from   the    honest 

Distressing  us  to  desolate  our  neiglibors  ? 
WJiy  is  this  ruinous  poll-tax  imposed, 
liut  to  support  your  court's  extravagance, 
And  your  mad  title  to  the  crown  of  France  ? 
Shall  we  sit  tamely  down  beneath  these  evils 
Petitioning  for  pity  ?     King  of  England, 
Wliy  are  we  sold  like  cattle  in  your  markets  — 
Deprived  of  every  privilege  of  man  ? 
Must  we  lie  tamely  at  our  tyrant's  feet. 
And,  like  your  spaniels,  lick  the  hand  that  beats  us  ? 
You  sit  at  ease  in  your  gay  palaces  ! 
The  costly  banquet  courts  your  appetite  ; 
Sweet  music  soothes  your  slumbers  :  we,  the  while. 
Scarce  by  hard  toil  can  earn  a  little  food,      [wind ; 
And    sleep    scarce  shelter'd  from  the  cold   night 
Whilst  your  wild  projects  wrest  the  little  from  us 
Which  might  have  cheer'd  the  wintry  hour  of  age. 
The  Parliament  forever  asks  more  money  ; 
We  toil  and  sweat  for  money  for  your  taxes  : 
Where  is  the  benefit,  what  good  reap  we 
From  all  the  counsels  of  your  government .' 
Think  you  that  we  should  quarrel  with  tjie  French? 
What  boots  to  us  your  victories,  your  glory  ? 
We  pay,  we  fight,  you  profit  at  your  ease. 
Do  you  not  claim  the  country  as  your  own  ' 
Do  you  not  call  the  venison  of  the  forest. 
The  birds  of  heaven,  your  own  ?  —  prohibiting  us. 
Even  though  in  want  of  food,  to  seize  the  prey 
Whlcli  nature  offers.     King  !  is  all  this  just.^ 
Think  you  we  do  not  feel  the  wrongs  we  suffer.' 
The  hour  of  retribution  is  at  hand, 
And  tyrants  tremble  —  mark  me,  King  of  England  ! 

Walworth,  {comes  behind  him,  and  stabs  kiiu.) 
Insolent  rebel,  threatening  the  King  ! 

Piers.    Vengeance  '.     Vengeance  I 

Hob.    Seize  the  King. 

King.    I  must  be  bold,     (.idrancing.) 

My  friends  and  loving  subjects, 
I  will  grant  you  all  you  ask;  you  shall  be  free  — 
The  tax  shall  be  repeal'd  —  all,  all  you  wish. 
Your  leader  menaced  me  ;  he  deservd  his  fate : 
Quiet  your  angers  :  on  my  royal  word 
Your  grievances  shall  all  be  done  away ; 
Your  vassalage  abolish'd.     A  free  pardon 
Allow'd  to  all :  So  help  me  God,  it  shall  be. 

John  Ball.    Revenge,  my  brethren,  beseems  not 
Christians  : 
Send  us  these  terms,  sign'd  with  your  seal  of  state. 
We  will  await  in  peace.     Deceive  us  not  — 
Act  justly,  so  to  excuse  j'our  late  foul  deed. 

King.   The  charter  shall  be  drawn  out :  on  mine 
All  shall  be  justly  done. 

ACT    III. 
Scene  I.     Smithjield. 

John  Ball,  Piers,  &c. 

Piers,   (to  John  Ball.)     You  look  disturbed,  my 

John  Ball.  Piers,  I  am  so.  [bishop. 

Jack  Straw  has  forced  the  tower ;  sciz'd  the  Arch- 
And  beheaded  him. 

Piers.  The  curse  of  insurrection. 

John  Bull.   Ay,    Piers,  our   nobles   level  down 
their  vassals. 
Keep  them  at  endless  labor,  like  their  brutes, 
Degrading  every  faculty  by  servitude. 
Repressing  all  the  energy  of  mind  : 
We  must  not  wonder,  tlien,  that,  like  wild  beasts. 
When  they  have  burst  their  chains,  with  brutal 

They  revenge  them  on  their  tyrants. 

Piers.  This  Archbishop, 

He  was  oppressive  to  his  humble  vassals  : 
Proud,  haughty,  avaricious  — — 

John  Ball.  A  true  high  priest, 

Preaching  humility  with  his  mitre  on; 
Praising  up  alms  and  Christian  charity. 
Even  whilst  his  unforgiving  hand  distress'd 
flis  honest  tenants. 

Piers.  Ho  deserved  his  fate,  then. 

John  Ball.    Justice  can  never  link  with  cruelty. 
Is  there  among  the  catiilogue  of  crimes 
A  sin  so  black  that  only  Death  can  expiate  ? 
Will  reason  never  rouse  her  from  her  slumbers. 
And  darting  through  the  veil  her  eagle  eye. 
See  in  the  sable  garments  of  the  law 
Revenge  conccal'd  ?     This   high  priest  has  been 

haughty ; 
He  has  oppress'd  his  vassals  :  tell  me,  Piers, 
Does  his  death  remedy  the  ills  he  caused .' 
Were  it  not  better  to  repress  his  power 
Of  doing  wrong,  that  so  his  future  life 
Might  remedy  tlio  evils  of  the  past. 
And  benefit  mankind  ? 

Piers.  But  must  not  vice 

Be  punish'd  .' 

John  Ball.     Is  not  punishment  revenge  ? 
The  momentary  violence  of  anger 
May  be  excused  :  the  indignant  heart  will  tlirob 
Against  oppression,  and  the  outstretch'd  arm 
Resent  its  injured  feelings.     The  Collector 
Insulted  Alice,  and  roused  the  keen  emotions 
Of  a  fond  father.     Tyler  murder'd  him. 

Piers.    Murder'd  I  —  a  most  harsh  word. 

John  Ball.  Yes,  murder'd  him : 

His  mangled  feelings  prompted  the  bad  act. 
And  Nature  will  almost  commend  the  deed    [ings 
That  Justice  blames  :  but  will   the   awaken'd  feel- 
Plead  with  their  heart-emoving  eloquence 
For  the  calm,  deliberate  murder  of  Revenge.' 
Would  you,  Piers,  in  your  calmer  hour  of  reason. 
Condemn  an  erring  brother  to  be  slain  ? 
Cut  him  at  once  from  all  the  joys  of  life. 
All  hopes  of  reformation  —  to  revenge 
The  deed  his  punishment  cannot  recall .' 
My  blood  boil'd  in  me  at  the  fate  of  Tyler, 
Yet  I  reveng'd  not. 

Piers.  Oh,  my  Christian  father, 

They  would  not  argue  thus  humanely  on  us. 
Were  we  within  their  power. 

John  Ball.  I  know  they  would  not; 

But  we  must  pity  them  that  they  are  vicious. 
Not  imitate  their  vice. 

1 08 


Piers.  Alas,  poor  Tyler ! 

I  do  repent  me  much  that  1  stood  back, 
When  he  advanced,  fearless  in  rectitude, 
To  meet  these  royal  assassins. 

John  Ball.  Not  for  myself, 

Though  I  have  lost  an  honest,  virtuous  friend. 
Mourn  1  the  death  of  Tyler :  he  was  one 
Gifted  with  the  strong  energy  of  mind. 
Quick  to  perceive  the  right,  and  prompt  to  act 
When  Justice  needed :  he  would  listen  to  me 
With  due  attention,  yet  not  yielding  lightly 
What  had  to  him  seem'd  good :  severe  in  virtue, 
He  awed  the  ruder  people,  whom  he  led, 
By  his  stern  rectitude. 

Piers.  Witness  that  day 

When  they  destroy'd  the  palace  of  the  Gaunt; 
And  hurl'd  the  wealth  his  avarice  had  amassed, 
Ainid  the  fire  :  the  people,  fierce  in  zeal, 
Threw  in  the  flames  a  wretch  whose  selfish  hand 
Purloin'd  amid  the  tumult. 

John  Ball.  1  lament 

The  death  of  Tyler  for  my  country's  sake. 
1  shudder  lest  posterity,  enslaved. 
Should  rue  his  murder.     Who  shall  now  control 
The  giddy  multitude,  blind  to  their  own  good. 
And  listening  with  avidity  to  the  tale 
Of  courtly  falsehood.' 

Piers.  The  King  must  perform 

His  plighted  promise. 

{Cnj  without  —  The  Charter  !  —  the  Charter  !) 

Enter  Mob  and  Herald. 

Tom  Miller.   Read  it  out  —  read  it  out. 

Hob.   Ay,  ay,  let's  hear  the  Charter. 

Herald.  Richard  Plantagenet,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  King  of  England,  Ireland,  France,  Scotland, 
and  the  town  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed,  to  all  whom 
it  may  concern,  —  These  presents  :  Whereas  our 
loving  subjects  have  complained  to  us  of  the  heavy 
burdens  they  endure,  particularly  from  our  late 
enacted  poll-tax ;  and  whereas  they  have  risen  in 
arms  against  our  otScers,  and  demanded  the  aboli- 
tion of  personal  slavery,  vassalage,  and  manorial 
rights ;  we,  ever  ready  in  our  sovereign  mercy  to 
listen  to  the  petitions  of  our  loving  subjects,  do 
annul  all  these  grievances. 

Mob.    Huzza!  long  live  the  King  '. 

Herald,  (continues.)  And  do  of  our  royal  mercy 
grant  a  free  pardon  to  all  who  may  have  been  any- 
ways concerned  in  the  late  insurrections.  All  this 
shall  be  faithfully  performed,  on  our  royal  word  ;  so 
help  us  God  —  God  save  the  King ! 

ILoud  and  repeated  shoiits. 

Herald.    Now  then  depart  in  quiet  to  your  homes. 

John  Ball.   Nay,  my  good  friend,  the  people  will 
Imbodled  peaceably,  till  Parliament 
Confirm  the  royal  Charter  :  tell  your  King  so: 
We  will  await  the  Charter's  confirmation, 
Meanwhile  comporting  ourselves  orderly. 
As  peaceful  citizens,  not  risen  in  tumult, 
But  to  redress  their  evils.  [Exit  Herald,  ^-c. 

Hob.  'Twas  well  ordered. 

I  place  but  little  trust  in  courtly  faith.  [King 

John  Ball.   We  must  remain  imbodied ;  else  the 

Will  plunge  again  in  royal  luxury. 

And  when  the  storm  of  danger  is  past  over, 

Forget  his  promises. 

Hob.  Ay,  like  an  aguish  sinner, 

He'll  promise  to  repent,  when  the  fit's  on  him; 
When  well  recover'd,  laugh  at  his  own  terrors. 

Piers.    Oh,  1  am  grieved  that  we   nmst  gain  so 
Why  are  not  all  these  empty  ranks  abolish'd, 
King,  slave,  and  lord,  ennobled  into  MAN  .' 
Are  we  not  equal  all  .■'  —  have  you  not  told  me 
Equality  is  the  sacred  right  of  man, 
Inalienable,  though  by  force  withheld .' 

John  Ball.    Even  so:    but,   Piers,  my  frail  and 
fallible  judgment 
Knows  hardly  to  decide  if  it  be  right 
Peaceably  to  return,  content  with  little, 
With  this  half  restitution  of  our  rights, 
Or  boldly  to  proceed,  through  blood  and  slaughter. 
Till  we  should  all  be  equal  and  all  happy. 
I  chose  the  milder  way:  —  perhaps  I  err'd ! 

Piers.   I  fear  me  I     By  the  mass,  the    unsteady 
Are  flocking  homewards  —  how  the  multitude 
Diminishes  I 

John  Ball.    Go  thou,  my  son,  and  stay  them. 
Carter,  do  you  exert  your  influence  : 
All  depends  upon  their  stay:  my  mind  is  troubled. 
And  I  would  fain  compose  my  thoughts  for  action. 

{Exeunt  Hob  and  Piers. 
Father  of  mercies  !     1  do  fear  me  much 
That  I  have  err'd.     Thou  gavest  my  ardent  mind 
To  pierce  the  mists  of  superstitious  falsehood  ;  — 
Gavest  me   to   knov/  the    truth.     I    should   have 

urged  it 
Through  every  opposition  ;  now,  perhaps. 
The  seemly  voice  of  pity  lias  deceived  me, 
And  all  this  mighty  movement  ends  in  ruin. 
1  fear  me  I  have  been  like  the  weak  leech. 
Who,  sparing  to  cut  deep,  with  cruel  mercy 
Mangles  his  patient  without  curing  him. 

[  Great  tumult. 
What  means  this  tumult.-'  hark  !  the  clang  of  arms. 
God  of  eternal  justice  —  the  false  monarch 
Has  broke  his  plighted  vow. 

[Enter  Piers  wounded. 

Piers.    Fly,  fly,  my  father  —  the  perjured  King, 
-fly,  fly. 

John  Ball.    Nay,  nay,   my  child  ;  I  dare   abide 
•  my  fate. 
Let  me  bind  up  thy  wounds. 

Piers.  'Tis  useless  succor. 

They  seek  thy  life  ;  fly,  fly,  my  honored  father, 
And  let  me  have  the  hope  to  sweeten  death 
That  thou  at  least  hast    scaped.     They  are  mur- 
Our  unsuspecting  brethren:  half  unarm'd, 
Trusting  too  fondly  to  the  tyrant's  word,      [blood. 
They  were   dispersing;  —  the   streets  swim  with 
Oh,  save  thyself  [Enter  Soldiers. 

1st  Soldier.    This  is  that  old  seditious  heretic. 

2d  Soldier.    And  here  the  young  spawn   of  re- 
bellion : 
My  orders  ar'n't  to  spare  him.  [Stabs  Piers. 

Come,  you  old  stirrer-up  of  insurrection. 



You  bell-wether  oftlie  mob  —  jou  ar'n't  to  die 
So  easily.  [Leading  Itiin  off. 

{Mobjiij  across  the  stage  —  the  troops  pursue  them 
—  tumult  increases  —  Loud  cries  and  shouts. 

Scene    II.       Westminster  Hull. 

King,  Walworth,  Piiilpot,  Sir  John 
Tresilian,  &c. 

Walworth.   My  liege,    'twas   wisely  ordered  to 
The  duiiohiU  rabble,  but  take  prisoner 
That  old  seditious  priest :  his  strange,  wild  notions 
Ol'this  equality,  when  well  exposed. 
Will  create  ridicule,  and  shame  the  people 
or  their  late  tumults. 

Sir  John.  Ay,  there's  nothing  like 

A  fair,  free,  open  trial,  where  the  King 
Can  choose  his  jury  and  appoint  his  judges. 

King.   Walworth,  I  must  thank  you  for  my  de- 
'Twas  a  bold  deed  to  stab  him  in  the  parley. 
Kneel    down,   and    rise   a   knight,    Sir    William 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.    I  left  them  hotly  at  it.     Smitlifield 
With  the  rebels'  blood  !  your  troops  fought  loyally; 
There's  not  a  man  of  them  will  lend  an  ear 
To  pity. 

Walworth.    Is  John  Ball  secured  .' 

Messenger.  They  have  seized  him. 

Enter  Guards,  icith  John  Ball. 

\st   Guard.    We've  brought  the  old  villain. 

2d  Guard.  An  old  mischief-maker  — 

Why,  there's  fifteen  hundred  of  the  mob  are  killed. 
All  through  his  preaching. 

air  John  Tr.    Prisoner,  are  you  the  arch-rebel 
John  Ball .' 

John  Ball.    I  am  John  Ball ;  but  1  am  not  a  rebel. 
Take  ye  the  name,  who,  arrogant  in  strength, 
Rebel  against  the  people's  sovereignty.       [ring  up 

Sir  John  Tr.    John  Ball,  you  are  accused  of  stir- 
The  poor  deluded  people  to  rebellion; 
Not  having  the  fear  of  God  and  of  the  King 
Before  your  eyes ;  of  preaching  up  strange  notions. 
Heretical  and  treasonous ;  such  as  saying 
That  kings  have  not  a  right  from  Heaven  to  govern  ; 
That  all  mankind  are  equal ;  and  that  rank 
And  the  distinctions  of  society, 
Ay,  and  the  sacred  rights  of  property, 
Are  evil  and  oppressive  :  plead  you  guilty 
To  this  most  heavy  charge  .' 

John  Ball.  Ifit  be  guilt 

To  preach  what  you  are  pleased   to  call  strange 

That  all  mankind  as  brethren  must  be  equal ; 
That  privileged  orders  of  society 
Are  evil  and  oppressive ;  that  the  right 
Of  property  is  a  juggle  to  deceive 
The  poor  whom  you  oppress  —  I  plead  me  guilty. 

Sir  John  Tr.  It  is  against  the  custom  of  this  court 
That  the  prisoner  should  plead  guilty. 

John  Ball.  Why  then  put  you 

The  needless  question.'     Sir  Judge,  let  me  save 
The  vain  and  empty  insult  of  a  trial. 
What  I  have  done,  that  I  dare  justify. 

Sir  John  Tr.  Did  you  not  tell  the  mob  they  were 
And  preach  uj)on  the  equality  of  man. 
With  evil  intent  thereby  to  stir  them  up 
To  tumult  and  rebellion  ? 

John  Bull.  That  1  told  them 

That  all  mankind  are  equal,  is  most  true  : 
Ye  came  as  helpless  infiints  to  the  world ; 
Ye  feel  alike  the  infirmities  of  nature  ; 
And  at  last  moulder  into  common  clay.  [earth 

Why  then  these  vain  distinctions.'  —  bears  not  the 
Food  in  abundance.'  — must  your  granaries 
O'crflov.'  with  plenty,  while  the  poor  man  starves? 
Sir  Judge,  why  sit  you  there,  clad  in  your  furs.' 
Why  are  your  cellars  stored  with  choicest  wines. 
Your  larders  hung  with  dainties,  while  your  vassal. 
As  virtuous,  and  as  able  too  by  nature. 
Though  by  your  selfish  tyranny  deprived 
Of  mind's  improvement,  shivers  in  his  rags, 
And  starves  amid  the  plenty  he  creates .' 
I  have  said  this  is  wrong,  and  I  repeat  it  — 
And  there  will  be  a  time  when  this  great  truth 
Shall  be  confess'd  —  be  felt  by  all  mankind. 
The  electric  truth  shall  run  from  man  to  man, 
And  the  blood-cemented  pyramid  of  greatness 
Shall  fall  before  the  flash. 

Sir  John  Tr.  Audacious  rebel ! 

How  darest  thou  insult  this  sacred  court, 
Blaspheming  all  the  dignities  of  rank.' 
How  could  the  Government  be  carried  on 
Without  the  sacred  orders  of  the  King 
And  the  nobility  .' 

John  Ball.  Tell  mo.  Sir  Judge, 

What  does  the  Government  avail  the  peasant.' 
Would  not  he  plough  his  field,  and  sow  the  corn. 
Ay,  and  in  peace  enjoy  tlie  harvest  too  .' 
Would  not  the  sun  shine  and  the  dews  descend, 
Thouo-h  neither  Kino-  nor  Parliament  existed? 
Do  your  court  politics  ought  matter  him  ? 
Would  he  be  warring  even  unto  death 
With  his  French  neighbors  ?  Charles  and  Richard 

The  people  fight  and  suffer :  —  think  ye.  Sirs, 
If  neither  country  had  been  cursed  with  a  chief, 
The  peasants  would  have  quarrell'd? 

King.  This  is  treason  ! 

The  patience  of  the  court  has  been  insulted  — 
Condemn  the  foul-mouth'd,  contumacious  rebel. 

Sir  John  Tr.  John  Ball,  whereas  you  are  accused 
before  us, 
Of  stirring  up  the  people  to  rebellion. 
And   preaching  to  them   strange   and    dangerous 

kdoctrines ; 
And  whereas  your  behavior  to  the  court 
Has  been  most  insolent  and  contumacious  ; 
Insulting  Majesty — and  since  you  have  pleaded 
Guilty  to  all  these  charges  ;  I  condemn  you 
To  death :  you  shall  be  hanged  by  the  neck. 
But  not  till  you  are  dead  — your  bowels  open'd  — 
Your  heart  torn  out,  and  burnt  before  your  face  — 
Your  traitorous  head  be  severed  from  your  body  — 



Your  body  quarter'd,  and  exposed  upon 

The  city  gates — a  terrible  example  — 

And  the  Lord  God  have  inorcy  on  your  soul. 

John  Ball.    Why,  be  it  so.     I  can  smile  at  your 
For  I  am  arni'd  with  rectitude  of  soul. 
The  truth,  which  all  my  life  1  have  divulged, 
And  am  now  doom'd  in  torments  to  expire  for. 
Shall  still  survive.     The  destined  hour  mustcome. 
When  it  shall  blaze  with  sun-surpassing  splendor, 
And  the  dark  mists  of  prejudice  and  falsehood 
Fade  in  its  strong  effulgence.     Flattery's  incense 
No  more  shall  shadow  round  the  gore-dyed  throne ; 
That  altar  of  oppression,  fed  with  rites 
More  savage  than  the  priests  of  Moloch  taught, 
Shall  be  consumed  amid  the  fire  of  Justice ; 
The  rays  of  truth  shall  emanate  around, 
And  the  whole  world  be  lighted. 

King.  Drag  him  hence  : 

Away  with  him  to  death ;  order  the  troops 
Now  to  give  quarter,  and  make  prisoners  — 
Let  the  blood-reeking  sword  of  war  be  sheathed, 
That  the  law  may  take  vengeance  on  the  rebels. 



Hold  your  mad  hands  !  forever  on  your  plain 
Must  the  gorged  vulture  clog  his  beak  with  blood .' 
Forever  must  your  Niger's  tainted  flood 
Roll  to  the  ravenous  shark  his  banquet  slain  ? 
Hold  your  mad  hands !    and   learn  at  length  to 

And  turn  your  vengeance  on  the  common  foe. 
Yon  treacherous  vessel  and  her  godless  crew  ! 
Let  never  traders  with  false  pretext  fair 
Set  on  your  shores  again  tlieir  wicked  feet : 
With  interdict  and  indignation  meet 
Repel  them,  and  with  fire  and  sword  pursue ! 
Avarice,  the  white,  cadaverous  fiend,  is  there. 
Who  spreads  his  toils  accursed  wide  and  far. 
And  for  his  purveyor  calls  the  demon  War. 


Why  dost  thou  beat  thy  breast  and  rend  thine  hair. 
And  to  the  deaf  sea  pour  thy  frantic  cries?  ^ 
Before  the  gale  the  laden  vessel  flies ; 
The  Heavens  all-favoring  smile,  the  breeze  is  fair; 
Hark  to  the  clamors  of  the  exulting  crew  ! 
Hark,  how  their  cannon  mock  the  patient  skies ! 
Why  dost  thou  shriek,  and  strain  thy  red-swollen 

As  the  white  sail  is  lessening  from  thy  view.' 
Go,  pine  in  want,  and  anguish,  and  despair ; 

There  is  no  mercy  found  in  human-kind  ! 
Go,  Widow,  to  thy  grave,  and  rest  thee  there ! 
But  may  the  God  of  Justice  bid  the  wind 
Whelm  that  curst  bark  beneath  the  mountain  wave, 
And  bless  with  liberty  and  death  the  Slave  ! 


On,  he  is  worn  with  toil  !  the  big  drops  run 
Down  his  dark  cheek  j  hold — hold  thy  merciless 

Pale  tyrant  I  for  beneath  thy  hard  command 
O'erwearicd  nature  sinks.     The  scorching  sun. 
As  pitiless  as  proud  Prosperity, 
Darts  on  him  his  full  beams ;  gasping  he  lies 
Arraigning  with  his  looks  the  patient  skies, 
While  that  inhuman  driver  lifts  on  high 
The  mangling  scourge.     O  ye  who  at  your  ease 
Sip  the  blood-sweeten'd    beverage,  thoughts  like 

Haply  ye  scorn  :  I  thank  thee,  gracious  God, 
That  I  do  feel  upon  my  cheek  the  glow 
Of  indignation,  when  beneath  the  rod 
A  sable  brother  writhes  in  silent  woe. 


'Tis  night ;  the  unrelenting  owners  sleep 

As  undisturb'd  as  Justice ;  but  no  more 

The  o'erwearicd  slave,  as  on  his  native  shore, 

Rests  on  his  reedy  couch  :  he  wakes  to  weep. 

Though  through  the  toil  and  anguish  of  the  day 

No  tear  escaped  him,  not  one  suffering  groan 

Beneath  the  twisted  thong,  he  weeps  alone 

In  bitterness;  thinking  that  far  away 

While  happy  Negroes  join  tlie  midnight  song. 

And  merriment  resounds  on  Niger's  shore, 

She  whom  he  loves,  far  from  the  cheerful  throng 

Stands  sad,  and  gazes  from  her  lowly  door 

With  dim-grown  eye,  silent  and  woe-begone, 

And  weeps  for  him  who  will  return  no  more. 


Dm  then  the  Negro  rear  at  last  the  sword 

Of  vengeance  .''     Did  he  plunge  its  thirsty  blade 

In  the  hard  heart  of  his  inhuman  lord .' 

Oh,  who  shall  blame  him  .''  in  the  midnight  shade 

There  came  on  him  the  intolerable  thought 

Of  every  past  delight;  his  native  grove. 

Friendship's  best  joys,  and  liberty  and  love. 

Forever  lost.     Such  recollections  wrought 

His  brain  to  madness.     Wherefore  should  he  live 

Longer  with  abject  patience  to  endure 

His  wrongs  and  wretcliedness,  when  hope  can  give 

No  consolation,  time  can  bring  no  cure  .'' 

But  justice  for  himself  he  yet  could  take. 

And  life  is  then  well  given  for  vengeance'  sake. 




High  in  the  air  exposed  the  shive  is  hung, 
To  all  the  birds  of'licavcn,  their  living  food  ! 
He  groans  not,  though  awaked  by  that  fierce  sun 
New  torturers  live  to  drink  their  parent  blood  : 
Ho  oroans  not,  thouir'i  tlie  <roririnir  vulture  tear 
The  quivering  fibre.     Hither  look,  O  ye 
Who  tore  this  man  from  peace  and  liberty  ! 
Look  hither,  ye  who  weigh  with  politic  care 
Tlie  gain  against  the  guilt !     Beyond  the  grave 
There  is  another  world  !  —  bear  ye  in  mind, 
Ere  your  decree  proclaims  to  all  mankind 
The  gain  is  worth  the  guilt,  that  there  the  Slave, 
Before  the  Eternal,  "  thunder-tongued  shall  plead 
Against  the  deep  damnation  of  your  deed." 

Brislol,  1794.. 


O  THOU,  who  from  the  mountain's  height 

Rnllest  thy  clouds  with  all  their  weight 

Of  waters  to  old  Nile's  majestic  tide ; 

Or  o'er  the  dark,  sepulchral  plain 

Recallest  Carthage  in  her  ancient  pride, 

The  mistress  of  the  Main  ; 

Hear,  Genius,  hear  thy  children's  cry  ! 

Not  always  shouldst  thou  love  to  brood 

Stern  o'er  the  desert  solitude 

Where  seas  of  sand  heave  their  hot  surges  high ; 

Nor,  Genius,  should  the  midnight  song 

Detain  thee  in  some  milder  mood 

The  palmy  plains  among, 

Where  Gambia  to  the  torches'  light 

Flows  radiant  through  the  awaken'd  night. 

Ah,  linger  not  to  hear  the  song ! 
Genius,  avenge  thy  children's  wrong! 
The  demon  Avarice  on  your  shore 
Brings  all  the  horrors  of  his  train; 
And  hark  I  where  from  the  field  of  gore 
Howls  the  hyena  o'er  the  slain  ! 
Lo  !  where  the  flaming  village  fires  the  skies, 
Avenging  Power,  awake  I  arise  ! 

Arise,  thy  children's  wrongs  redress  I 
Heed  the  mother's  wretchedness, 
When  in  the  hot,  infectious  air 
O'er  her  sick  babe  she  bows  opprest, — 
Hear  her  when  the  Traders  tear 
The  suflTering  infant  from  her  breast ! 
Sunk  in  the  ocean  he  shall  rest ! 
Hear  thou  the  wretched  mother's  cries, 
Avenging  Power  !  awake!  arise! 

By  the  rank,  infected  air 
That  taints  those  cabins  of  despair; 
By  the  scourges  blacken'd  o'er. 
And  stiff  and  hard  with  human  gore; 
By  every  groan  of  deep  distress, 
By  every  curse  of  wretchedness  ; 
Tlte  vices  and  the  crimes  that  flow 
From  the  hopelessness  of  woe  ; 
By  every  drop  of  blood  bcspilt, 

By  Afric's  wrongs  and  Europe's  guilt, 
Awake  !  arise  !  avenge  I 

And  thou  hast  heard  !  and  o'er  their  blood-fed 
Sent  thine  avenging  hurricanes, 
And  bade  thy  storms  with  whirlwind  roar 
Dash  their  proud  navies  on  the  shore  ; 
And  where  their  armies  claim  d  the  fight 
Wither'd  the  warrior's  might ; 
And  o'er  the  unholy  host,  with  baneful  breath, 
There, Genius,  thou  hast  breathed  the  gales  of  Death. 

Brislol,  1795. 



In  September,  1798,  a  Dissenting  Minister  of  Bristol  discov- 
ered a  sailor  in  tlic  neigliborliood  of  that  City,  groaning  and 
praying  in  a  cow-house.  The  circumstance  which  occa- 
sioned his  agony  of  mind  is  detailed  in  the  annexed  ballad, 
without  the  slightest  addition  or  alteration.  By  presenting 
it  as  a  Poem,  the  story  is  made  more  public  ;  and  such  stories 
ought  to  he  made  as  public  as  possible. 

It  was  a  Christian  minister. 

Who,  in  the  month  of  flowers, 
Walk'd  forth  at  eve  amid  the  fields 

Near  Bristol's  ancient  towers,  — 

When,  from  a  lonely  out-house  breathed. 

He  heard  a  voice  of  woe, 
And  groans  which  less  might  seem  from  pain, 

Than  wretchedness,  to  flow. 

Heart-rending  groans  they  were,  with  words 

Of  bitterest  despair  ; 
Yet  with  the  holy  name  of  Christ 

Pronounced  in  broken  prayer. 

The  Christian  Minister  went  in; 

A  Sailor  there  he  sees. 
Whose  hands  were  lifted  up  to  Heaven, 

And  he  was  on  his  knees. 

Nor  did  the  Sailor,  so  intent. 

His  entering  footsteps  heed. 
But  now  "  Our  Father  "  said,  and  now 

His  half-forgotten  creed  ;  — 

And  often  on  our  Savior  call'd 

With  many  a  bitter  groan, 
But  in  such  anguish  as  may  spring 

From  deepest  guilt  alone. 

The  miserable  man  was  ask'd 

Why  he  was  kneeling  there. 
And  what  had  been  the  crime  that  caused 

The  anguish  of  his  prayer. 

"  I  have  done  a  cursed  thing  !  "  he  cried ; 

"  It  haunts  me  night  and  day  ; 
And  I  have  sought  this  lonely  place 

Here  undisturb'd  to  pray. 



Aboard  1  liavo  no  place  for  prayer, 

So  I  came  here  alone, 
That  1  might  freely  kneel  and  i)ray, 

And  call  on  Christ,  and  groan. 

If  to  the  main-mast  head  I  go, 

The  Wicked  One  is  there  ; 
From  place  to  place,  from  rope  to  rope. 

He  follows  every  wliere. 

1  shut  my  eyes  —  it  matters  not  — 

Still,  still  the  samc^  I  see, — 
And  when  1  lie  me  down  at  night, 

'Tis  always  day  with  me  ! 

He  follows,  follows  every  where, 
And  every  place  is  Hell  ! 

0  God  —  and  1  must  go  with  Him 
In  endless  fire  to  dwell .-' 

He  follows,  follows  every  wliere  ; 

He's  still  above  — below  ! 
Oh,  tell  me  where  to  fly  from  him ! 

Oh,  tell  me  where  to  go  !  " 

"  But  tell  thou,"  quoth  the  stranger  then, 
'•  What  tliis  thy  crime  hath  been  ; 

So  haply  I  may  comfort  give 
To  one  who  grieves  for  sin." 

"  Oh  cursed,  cursed  is  the  deed  1 " 

The  wretched  man  replies; 
"  And  niglit,  and  day,  and  every  where, 

'Tis  still  before  my  eyes. 

1  sail'd  on  board  a  Guinea-man, 
And  to  the  slave-coast  went ;  — 

Would  that  the  sea  had  swallow'd  me 
When  1  was  innocent ! 

And  we  took  in  our  cargo  there, 

Three  hundred  negro  slaves, 
And  we  sail'd  homeward  merrily 

Over  the  ocean-waves. 

But  some  were  sulky  of  the  slaves, 
And  would  not  touch  their  meat, 

So  therefore  we  were  forced  by  threats 
And  blows  to  make  them  eat. 

One  woman,  sulkier  than  the  rest, 

Would  still  refuse  her  food,  — 
O  Jesus  God  !  I  hear  her  cries  I 

I  see  her  in  her  blood  ! 

The  Captain  made  me  tie  her  up. 

And  flog  while  he  stood  by  ; 
And  then  he  cursed  me  if  I  stayed 

My  hand  to  hear  her  cry. 

She  shriek'd,  she  groan'd, — I  could  not  spare, 

For  the  Captain  he  stood  by ;  — 
Dear  God  !  that  I  might  rest  one  night 

From  that  poor  creature's  cry  ! 

What  woman's  child  a  sight  like  that 

(yould  bear  to  look  upon  ! 
And  still  the  Captain  would  not  spare  — 

But  made  me  still  flog  on. 

She  could  not  be  more  glad  than  1, 

When  she  was  taken  down  : 
A  blessed  minute  !  —  'twas  the  last 

That  I  have  ever  known 

1  did  not  close  my  ej-es  all  night. 

Thinking  what  I  had  done ; 
I  heard  her  groans,  and  they  grew  faint 

Towards  the  rising  sun. 

She  groan'd  and  moan'd,  but  her  voice  grew 

Fainter  at  morning  tide  ; 
Fainter  and  fainter  still  it  came, 

Until  at  noon  she  died. 

They  flung  her  overboard;  —  poor  wretch. 

She  rested  from  her  pain, — 
But  when  — O  Christ!  O  blessed  God!  — 

Shall  I  have  rest  again  .' 

1  saw  the  sea  close  over  her ; 

Yet  she  is  still  in  sight ; 
I  see  her  twisting  every  where ; 

I  hear  her  day  and  night. 

Go  where  1  will,  do  what  I  can. 

The  Wicked  One  I  see  : 
Dear  Christ,  have  mercy  on  my  soul ! 

O  God,  deliver  me  ! 

Oh,  give  me  comfort,  if  you  can  ! 

Oh,  tell  me  where  to  fly  ! 
Oh,  tell  me  if  there  can  be  hope 

For  one  so  lost  as  1 !  " 

What  said  the  Minister  of  Christ .' 

He  bade  him  trust  in  Heaven, 
And  call  on  Him  for  whose  dear  sake 

All  sins  shall  be  forgiven. 

He  told  him  of  that  precious  blood 

Which  should  his  guilt  efface  ; 
Told  him  that  none  are  lost,  but  they 

Who  turn  from  profi'er'd  grace. 

He  bade  him  pra)',  and  knelt  with  him, 
And  join'd  hiin  in  his  prayers  : 

And  some  who  read  t!ie  dreadful  talc 
Perhaps  will  aid  with  theirs. 

Westbury,  1798. 


SPOKEN    IN    THE    TIIE-^TRE    AT    OXIORD,    ITOS     tUK 

Grenville,   few  years   have   had    their   course, 

since  last 
Exulting  Oxford  view'd  a  spectacle 
Like    this    day's    pomp ;    and   yet   to    those    who 

These  walls,  which  ccho"d  then  with  Portland's 

praise,  [spring 

What  chanrre  hath    intervened !     The  bloom   of 



Is  fled  from  many  a  cheek,  wlicre  roseate  joy 

And  beauty  bloom'd ;  the  inexorable  Grave 

Hath  claim'd  its  portion ;  and  the  band  of  youths, 

Wlio  then,  collected  here  as  in  a  port, 

From  whence  to  launch  on  life's  adventurous  sea, 

Stood  on  the  beach,  ere  this  have  found  their  lots 

Of  good  or  evil.     Thus  the  lapse  of  years. 

Evolving  all  things  in  its  quiet  course. 

Hath  wrought  for  them ;  and  thougli  those  years 

have  seen 
Kcarful  vicissitudes,  of  wilder  change 
Than  history  yet  had  learnt,  or  old  romance 
In  wildest  mood  imagined,  yet  these  too. 
Portentous  as  they  seem,  not  less  have  risen, 
Each  of  its  natural  cause  the  sure  effect. 
All  righteously  ordain'd.    Lo  !  kingdoms  wreck'd, 
Thrones  overturn'd,  built  up,  then  swept  away 
Like  fabrics  in  the  summer  clouds,  dispersed 
By  the  same  breath  that  lieap'd  them ;  rightful 

Who,  from  a  line  of  long-drawn  ancestry, 
Held  the  transmitted  sceptre,  to  the  axe 
Bowing  the  anointed  head ;  or  dragg'd  away 
To  eat  the  bread  of  bondage ;  or  escaped 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Britannia's  shield,      , 
There  only  safe.     Such  fate  have  vicious  courts, 
Statesmen  corrupt,  and  fear-struck  policy, 
Upon  themselves  drawn  down  ;  till  Europe,  bound 
In  iron  chains,  lies  bleeding  in  tlie  dust. 
Beneath  the  feet  of  upstart  tyranny  : 
Only  the  heroic  Spaniard,  he  alone 
Yet  unsubdued  in  these  degenerate  days, 
With  desperate  virtue,  such  as  in  old  time 
Hallow'd  Saguntum  and  Numantia's  name, 
Stands  up  against  the  oppressor  undismay'd. 
So  may  the  Almighty  bless  the  noble  race. 
And  crown  with  happy  end  their  holiest  cause  ' 

Deem  not  these  dread  events  the  monstrous  birth 
Of  chance  !    And  thou,  O  England,  who  dost  ride 
Serene  amid  the  waters  of  the  flood, 
Preserving,  even  like  the  Ark  of  old. 
Amid  the  general  wreck,  thy  purer  faith, 
Domestic  loves,  and  ancient  liberty. 
Look  to  thyself,  O  England  I  for  be  sure, 
Even  to  the  measure  of  thine  own  desert, 
The  cup  of  retribution  to  thy  lips 
Shall  soon  or  late  be  dealt!  —  a  thought  that  well 
Might  fill  the  stoutest  heart  of  all  thy  sons 
With  awful  apprehension.     Therefore,  they 
Who  fear  the  Eternal's  justice,  bless  thy  name, 
Grenville,  because  the  wrongs  of  Africa 
Cry  out  no  more  to  draw  a  curse  from  Heaven 
On  England  !  —  for  if  still  the  trooping  sliarks 
Track  by  the  scent  of  death  the  accursed  ship 
Freighted  with  human  anguish,  in  her  wake 
Pursue  the  chase,  crowd  round  her  keel,  and  dart 
Toward  the  sound  contending,  when  they  hear 
The  frequent  carcass,  from  her  guilty  deck, 
Dash  in  the  opening  deep,  no  longer  now 
The  guilt  shall  rest  on  England ;  but  if  yet 
Tliere  be  among  her  children,  hard  of  heart 
And  sear'd  of  conscience,  men  who  set  at  nought 
Her  laws  and  God's  own  word,  upon  themselves 
Their  sin  be  visited  !  —  the  red-cross  flag, 

Redeem'd  from  stain  so  foul,  no  longer  now 
Covereth  the  abomination. 

This  thy  praise, 
O  Grenville,  and  while  ages  roll  away 
This  shall  be  thy  remembrance.     Yea,  when  all 
For  which  the  tyrant  of  these  abject  times 
Hath  given  his  honorable  name  on  earth. 
His  nights  of  innocent  sleep,  his  hopes  of  heaven ; 
When  all  his  triumphs  and  his  deeds  of  blood, 
The  fretful  changes  of  his  feverish  pride, 
His  midnight  murders  and  perfidious  plots, 
Are  but  a  tale  of  years  so  long  gone  by. 
That  they  who  read  distrust  the  hideous  truth, 
Willing  to  let  a  charitable  doubt 
Abate  tlieir  horror;  Grenville,  even  then 
Thy  memory  will  be  fresh  among  mankind ; 
Afric  with  all  her  tongues  will  speak  of  thee. 
With  Wilberforce  and  Clarkson,  he  whom  Heaven, 
To  be  the  apostle  of  this  holy  work, 
Raised  up  and  strengthen'd,  and  upheld  tiirougli 

His  arduous  toil.    To  end  the  glorious  task, 
That  blessed,  that  redeeming  deed  was  thine  : 
Be  it  thy  pride  in  life,  thy  thought  in  death. 
Thy  praise  beyond  the  tomb.  The  statesman's  fame 
Will  fade,  the  conqueror's  laurel  crown  grow  sear; 
Fame's  loudest  trump  upon  the  ear  of  Time 
Leaves  but  a  dying  echo ;  they  alone 
Are  held  in  everlasting  memory, 
Whose  deeds  partake  of  heaven.  Long  ages  hence 
Nations  unborn,  in  cities  that  shall  rise 
.\long  the  palmy  coast,  will  bless  thy  name; 
And  Senegal  and  secret  Niger's  shore, 
And  Calabar,  no  longer  startled  then 
With  sounds  of  murder,  will,  like  Isis  now, 
Ring  with  the  songs  that  tell  of  Grenville's  praise. 

Kesivick,  1810. 


\Vhere  a  siglit  shall  shuddering  sorrow  find, 
Sad  as  the  ruins  of  the  human  mind Bowles. 


Time,  Morning.     Scene,  The  Shore. 

Once  more  to  daily  toil,  once  more  to  wear 
The  livery  of  shame,  once  more  to  search 
With  miserable  task  this  savage  shore! 
O  thou,  who  mountest  so  triumpliantly 
In  yonder  Heaven,  beginning  thy  career 
Of  glory,  O  tiiou  blessed  Sun  !  thy  beams 
Fall  on  me  with  the  same  benignant  light 
Here,  at  the  farthest  limits  of  the  world, 
And  blasted  as  I  am  with  infamy, 
As  when  in  better  years  poor  Elinor 
Gazed  on  thy  glad  uprise  with  eye  undimm'd 
By  guilt  and  sorrow,  and  the  opening  morn 



Woke  her  from  quiet  sleep  to  days  of  peace. 
In  otlier  occupation  then  1  trod 
The  beach  at  eve ;  and  tlion,  wlien  I  beheld 
The  billows  as  they  roll'd  before  the  storm 
Burst  on  the  rock  and  rage,  my  timid  soul 
Shrunk  at  the  perils  of  the  boundless  deep, 
And  heaved  a  sigh  for  suffering  mariners ;  — 
Ah  !  little  thinking  I  myself  was  doom'd 
To  tempt  tlie  perils  of  the  boundless  deep, 
An  outcast,  unbeloved  and  unbewail'd. 

Still  wilt  thou  haunt  me,  Memory  !  still  present 
The  fields  of  England  to  my  exiled  eyes, 
The  joys  which  once  were  mine.     Even  now  I  see 
The  lowly,  lovely  dwelling;  even  now 
Behold  the  woodbine  clasping  its  white  walls. 
Where  fearlessly  the  red-breasts  chirp'd  around 
To  ask  their  morning  meal :  and  where  at  eve 
I  loved  to  sit  and  watch  the  rook  sail  by. 
And  hear  his  hollow  tone,  what  time  he  sought 
The  church-yard  elm,  that  witli  its  ancient  boughs 
Full-foliaged,  half-conccal'd  the  house  of  God; 
Tliat  holy  house,  where  I  so  oft  have  heard 
My  father's  voice  explain  the  wondrous  works 
Of  Heaven  to  sinful  man.     Ah!  little  deem'd 
His  virtuous  bosom,  that  his  shameless  child 
So  soon  should  spurn  the  lesson, —  sink,  the  slave 
Of  Vice  and  Infamy,  —  the  hireling  prey 
Of  brutal  appetite  ;  —  at  length  worn  out 
With  famine,  and  the  avenging  scourge  of  guilt. 
Should  share  dislionesty,  — yet  dread  to  die  ! 

Welcome,  ye  savage  lands,  ye  barbarous  climes, 
Where  angry  England  sends  her  outcast  sons ; 
I  hail  your  joyless  shores  !     My  weary  bark, 
Long  tempest-tost  on  Life's  inclement  sea, 
Here  hails  her  haven ;  welcomes  the  drear  scene, 
The  marshy  plain,  the  brier-entangled  wood, 
And  all  the  perils  of  a  world  unknown. 
For  Elinor  has  nothing  new  to  fear 
From  cruel  Fortune;  all  her  rankling  shafts 
Barb'd  with  disgrace,  and  venom'd  with  disease, 
Have  pierced  my  bosom,  and  the  dart  of  death 
Has  lost  its  terrors  to  a  wretch  like  me. 

Welcome,  ye  marshy  heaths,  ye  pathless  woods, 
Where  the  rude  native  rests  his  wearied  frame 
Beneath  the  sheltering  shade ;    where,  when  the 

Benumbs  his  naked  limbs,  he  flies  to  seek 
The  dripping  shelter.     Welcome,  ye  wild  plains 
Unbroken  by  the  plough,  undelvcd  by  hand 
Of  patient  rustic ;  where  for  lowing  herds, 
And  for  the  music  of  the  bleating  flocks, 
Alone  is  heard  the  kangaroo's  sad  note 
Deepening  in  distance.     Welcome,  wilderness, 
Nature's  domain  !  for  here,  as  yet  unknown 
The  comforts  and  the  crimes  of  polish'd  life, 
Nature  benignly  gives  to  all  enough, 
Denies  to  all  a  superfluity. 
What  though  the  garb  of  infamy  I  wear. 
Though  day  by  day  along  the  echoing  beach 
I  gather  wave-worn  shells ;  yet  day  by  day 
I  earn  in  honesty  my  frugal  food, 
And  lay  me  down  at  night  to  calm  repose ; 

No  more  condemned,  the  mercenary  tool 

Of  brutal  lust,  while  heaves  the  indignant  heart 

Abhorrent,  and  self-loathed,  to  fold  my  arms 

Round  the  rank  felon,  and  for  daily  bread 

To  hug  contagion  to  my  poison'd  IJreast ! 

On  these  wild  shores  the  saving  hand  of  Grace 

Will  probe  my  secret  soul,  and  cleanse  its  wounds. 

And  fit  the  faithful  penitent  for  Heaven. 

Oxford,  1794. 


Time,  Noon. 


See'st  thou  not,  William,  that  the  scorching  sun 
By  this  time  half  his  daily  race  hath  run .' 
The  savage  thrusts  his  light  canoe  to  shore. 
And  hurries  homeward  with  his  fishy  store. 
Suppose  we  leave  awhile  this  stubborn  soil. 
To  e9,t  our  dinner  and  to  rest  from  toil. 


Agreed.     Yon  tree,  whose  purple  gum  bestows 
A  ready  medicine  for  the  sick  man's  woes. 
Forms  with  its  shadowy  boughs  a  cool  retreat 
To  shield  us  from  the  noontide's  sultry  heat. 
Ah,  Humphrey  !  now  upon  old  England's  shore 
The  weary  laborer's  morning  work  is  o'er. 
The  woodman  there  rests  from  his  measured  stroke, 
Flings  down  his  axe,  and  sits  beneath  the  oak ; 
Savor'd  with  hunger  there  he  eats  his  food. 
There  drinks  the  cooling  streamlet  of  the  wood. 
To  us  no  cooling  streamlet  winds  its  way, 
No  joys  domestic  crown  for  us  the  day  ; 
The  felon's  name,  the  outcast's  garb  we  wear, 
Toil  all  the  day,  and  all  the  night  despair. 


Aye,  William  !  laboring  up  the  furrow'd  ground, 
I  used  to  love  the  village  clock's  old  sound. 
Rejoice  to  hear  my  morning  toil  was  done. 
And  trudge  it  homeward  when  the  clock  went  one. 
Twas  ere  I  turn'd  a  soldier  and  a  sinner ! 
Pshaw  !  curse  this  whining  —  let  us  fall  to  dinner. 


I  too  have  loved  this  hour,  nor  yet  forgot 
The  household  comforts  of  my  little  cot ; 
For  at  this  hour  my  wife  with  watchful  care 
Was  wont  her  humble  dainties  to  prepare ; 
The  keenest  sauce  by  hunger  was  supplied. 
And  my  poor  children  prattled  at  my  side. 
Methinks  I  see  the  old  oak  table  spread,      [bread  • 
The   clean  white  trencher,  and  the  good  brown 
The  cheese,  my  daily  fare,  which  Mary  made. 
For  Mary  knew  full  well  the  housewife's  trade ; 
The  jug  of  cider,  —  cider  I  could  make  ;  — 
And  then  the  knives,  —  I  won  'cm  at  the  wake. 
Another  has  them  now !     I  toiling  here 
Look  backward  like  a  child,  and  drop  a  tear. 




I  love  a  dismal  story  :  tell  me  thine  : 
Meantime,  good  Will,  I'll  listen  as  I  dine  : 
1  too,  my  friend,  can  tell  a  piteous  story 
When  I  turn'd  hero  how  I  purchased  glory. 


But,   Humphrey,  sure   thou  never  canst  have 

The  comforts  of  a  little  home  thine  own ; 
A  home  so  snug,  so  cheerful  too,  as  mine ; 
'Twas  always  clean,  and  we  could  make  it  fine. 
For  there  King  Charles's  Golden  Rules  were  seen. 
And  there  —  God  bless  'em both!  the  King  and 

The  pewter  plates,  our  garnish'd  chimney's  grace. 
So  bright,  that  in  them  you  might  see  your  face  ; 
And  over  all,  to  frighten  thieves,  was  hung. 
Well  clean'd,  although  but  seldom  used,  my  gun. 
Ah!  that  damn'd  gun  !  I  took  it  down  one  morn, — 
A  desperate  deal  of  harm  they  did  my  corn ! 
Our  testy  Squire,  too,  loved  to  save  the  breed. 
So  covey  upon  covey  ate  my  seed. 
I  mark'd  the  mischievous  rogues,  and  took  my  aim ; 
I  fired,  tlicy  fell,  and  —  up  the  keeper  came. 
That  cursed  morning  brought  on  my  undoing; 
I  went  to  prison,  and  my  farm  to  ruin. 
Poor  Mary !  for  her  grave  the  parish  paid  ; 
No  tomb-stone  tells  where  her  remains  are  laid  ! 
My  children  —  my  poor  boys  — 


Come  !  —  grief  is  dry  — 
You  to  your  dinner ;  —  to  my  story  I. 
For  you,  my  friend,  who  happier  days  have  known. 
And  each  calm  comfort  of  a  home  your  own. 
This  is  bad  living:  I  have  spent  my  life 
In  hardest  toil  and  unavailing  strife. 
And  here,  (from  forest  ambush  safe  at  least,) 
To  me  this  scanty  pittance  seems  a  feast. 
I  was  a  plough-boy  once,  as  free  from  woes 
And  blithesome  as  the  lark  with  whom  I  rose. 
£ach  evening  at  return  a  meal  I  found ; 
And  though  my  bed  was  hard,  my  sleep  was  sound. 
One  Whitsuntide,  to  go  to  fair  I  drest. 
Like  a  great  bumpkin,  in  my  Sunday's  best ; 
A  primrose  posy  in  my  hat  I  stuck. 
And  to  the  revel  went  to  try  my  luck. 
From  show  to  show,  from  booth  to  booth  I  stray. 
See,  stare,  and  wonder  all  the  live-long  day. 
A  sergeant  to  tlie  fair  recruiting  came, 
Skill'd  in  man-catching,  to  beat  up  for  game  ; 
Our  booth  he  enter'd,  and  sat  down  by  me ;  — 
Methinks  even  now  the  very  scene  I  see ! 
The  canvass  roof,  the  hogshead's  running  store. 
The  old  blind  fiddler  seated  next  the  door. 
The  frothy  tankard  passing  to  and  fro. 
And  the  rude  rabble  round  the  puppet-show. 
The  sergeant  eyed  me  well ;  the  puncli-bowl  comes. 
And   as   we   laugh'd   and  drank,    up   struck   the 

And  now  he  gives  a  bumper  to  his  wench ; 
God   save   the    King!  and   then,  God   damn  the 

French ! 

Then  tells  the  story  of  his  last  campaign, 
ilow  many  wounded  and  how  many  slain. 
Flags  flying,  cannons  roaring,  drums  a-beating. 
The  English  marching  on,  the  French  retreating  — 
"  Push  on  —  push  on,  my  lads  !  they  fly  before  ye  ; 
March  on  to  riches,  happiness,  and  glory  ! '' 
At  first  I  wonder'd,  by  degrees  grew  bolder, 
Tlien  cried,  "  'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  soldier  !  " 
"Aye,  Iluinphrey  !"  says  the  sergeant, — "that's 

your  name  ? 
'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  fight  the  French  for  fame  ! 
March   to   tlie   field,  —  knock   out  a  Mounseer's 

And  pick  the  scoundrel's  pocket  for  your  pains. 
Come,  Humphrey,  come  !  thou  art  a  lad  of  spirit; 
Rise  to  a  iialbert,  as  I  did,  —  by  merit  ! 
Wouldsl  thou  believe  it .'  even  I  was  once 
As  thou  art  now,  a  plough-boy  and  a  dunce  ; 
But  courage  raised   me   to  my  rank.     How  now, 


Sliall  Hero  Humphrey  still  be  Numps  the  plough- 
boy  ? 
A  proper-shaped  young  fellow  !  tall  and  straight ! 
Why,  thou  wert  made  for  glory  !  —  five  feet  eight ! 
The  road  to  riches  is  the  field  of  fight !  — 
Didst  ever  see  a  guinea  look  so  bright.' 
Why,  regimentals,  Numps,  would  give  thee  grace ; 
A  hat  and  feather  would  become  that  face ; 
The  girls  would  crowd  around  thee  to  be  kiss'd  !  — 
Dost  love  a  girl?"  —  "Odd  Zounds!"     I  cried, 

"I'll  list!" 
So  pass'd  the  night ;  anon  the  mornmg  came. 
And  off  I  set  a  volunteer  for  fame. 
'•  Back  shoulders,  turn  oul  your  toes,  hold  up  )'our 

Stand  easy  !  "  —  so  I  did  —  till  almost  dead. 
O  how  I  long'd  to  tend  the  plough  again. 
Trudge  up  the  field,  and  whistle  o'er  the  plain. 
When  tired  and  sore,  amid  the  piteous  throno-, 
Hungry,  and  cold,  and  wet,  I  linip'd  along. 
And  growing  fainter  as  I  pass'd,  and  colder, 
Cursed  that  ill  hour  when  I  became  a  soldier ! 
In  town  I  found  the  hours  more  gayly  pass. 
And  time  fled  swiftly  with  my  girl  and  glass ; 
The   girls    were   wondrous    kind    and    wondrous 

They  soon  transferr'd  me  to  the  Doctor's  care  ; 
The  Doctor  undertook  to  cure  the  evil. 
And  he  almost  transferr'd  me  to  the  Devil. 
'Twere  tedious  to  relate  the  dismal  story 
Of  fighting,  fasting,  wretcliedness,  and  glory. 
At  last  discharged,  to  England's  shores  I  came. 
Paid  for  my  wounds  with  want  instead  of  fame  ; 
Found  my  fair  friends,  and  plunder'd  as  they  bade 

me  ; 
They  kiss'd  me,coax'd  me,robb'd  me,  and  betray 'd 

Tried  and  condemn'd.  His  Majesty  transports  me  ; 
And  here  in  peace,  I  thank  him,  he  supports  me. 
So  ends  my  dismal  and  heroic  story ; 
And  Humphrey  gets  more  good  from  guilt  than 

Oxford,  1794. 





Time,  Evening. 


'Tisacalm,  pleasant  evening ;  the  light  fades  away, 

And  the  sun  going  down  has  done  watch  for  the 

To  my  mind  we  live  wondrous  well  when  trans- 
ported ; 

It  is  but  to  work,  and  we  must  be  supported. 

Fill  the  can,  Dick  !    Success  here  to  liotany  Bay  ! 


Success,  if  you  will,  —  but  God  send  me  away  ! 


You  lubberly  landsmen  don't  know  when  you're 
Hadst  tliou  known  half  the  hardships  of  which  I 

can  tell ! 
The  sailor  has  no  place  of  safety  in  store ; 
From  the  tempest  at  sea,  to  the  press-gang  onshore  ! 
When  Roguery  rules  all  the  rest  of  the  earth, 
God  be  thank'd,  in  this  corner  I've  got  a  good  berth. 


Talk   of  hardships !  what  these  are  the   sailor 
don't  know; 
'Tis  the  soldier,  my  friend,  that's  acquainted  with 

Long  journeys,  short  halting,  hard  work,  and  small 


To  be  popt  at  like  pigeons  for  sixpence  a  day  !  — 
Thank  God  I'm  safe  quarter'd  at  Botany  Bay. 


Ah !  you  know  but  little :  I'll  wager  a  pot 
I  have  suffer'd  more  evils  than  fell  to  your  lot. 
Come,  we'll  have  it  all  fairly  and  properly  tried, 
Tell  story  for  story,  and  Dick  shall  decide. 




Done.     'Tis  a  wager,  and  I  shall  be  winner; 
Thou  wilt  go  without  grog,  Sam,  to-morrow  at 


I  was  trapp'd  by  the  Sergeant's  palavering  pre- 
He  listed  me  when  I  was  out  of  my  senses ; 
So  I  took  leave  to-day  of  all  care  and  all  sorrow, 
And   was   drill'd   to    repentance   and   reason   to- 


I  would  be  a  sailor,  and  plough  the  wide  ocean. 
But  was  soon  sick  and  sad  with  the  billows'  com- 
motion ; 
So  the  boatswain  he  sent  me  aloft  on  the  mast, 
And  cursed  me,  and  bade   me  cry  there,  —  and 
hold  fast ! 


After  marching  all  day,  faint  and  hungry  and 

sore,  [nToor, 

I  have  lain  down  at  night  on  the  swamps  of  the 

Unshelter'd  and  forced  by  fatigue  to  remain. 

All  chill'd  by  the  wind  and  benumb'd  by  the  rain. 


I  have  rode  out  the  storm  when  the  billows  beat 

And  the  red  gleaming  lightnings  flash'd  through 

the  dark  sky  ; 
When  the  tempest  of  night  the  black  sea  overcast. 
Wet  and  weary  I  labor'd,  yet  sung  to  the  blast. 


I  have  march'd,  trumpets  sounding,  drums  beat- 
ing, flags  flying, 

Where  the  music  of  war  drown'd  the  shrieks  of  the 
dying ; 

When  the  shots  whizz'd  around  me,  all  dangers 
defied  ; 

Push'd  on  when  my  comrades  fell  dead  at  my  side  ; 

Drove  the  foe  from  the  mouth  of  the  cannon  away. 

Fought,  conquer'd,  and  bled,  all  for  sixpence  a-day. 

And  I  too,  friend  Samuel,  have  heard  the  shots 

rattle  ! 
But  we  seamen  rejoice  in  the  play  of  the  battle  ; 
Though  the  chain  and  the  grape-shot  roll  splintering 

With  the  blood  of  our  messmates  though  slippery 

the  ground. 
The  fiercer  the  fight,  still  the  fiercer  we  grow  ; 
We  heed  not  our  loss,  so  we  conquer  the  foe  ; 
And  the  hard  battle  won,  if  the  prize  be  not  sunk. 
The  Captain  gets  rich,  and  the  Sailors  get  drunk. 


God  help  the  poor  soldier  when  backward  he  goes. 
In  disgraceful  retreat,  through  a  country  of  foes  ! 
No  respite  from  danger  by  day  or  by  night. 
He  is  still  forced  to  fly,  still  o'ertaken  to  fight ; 
Every  step  that  he  takes  he  must  battle  his  way, 
He  must  force  his  hard  meal  from  the  peasant  away : 
No  rest,  and  no  hope,  from  all  succor  afar,  — 
God  forgive  the  poor  soldier  for  going  to  the  war ! 


But  what  are  these  dangers  to  those  1  have  past. 
When  the  dark  billows  roar'd  to  the  roar  of  the 

blast ; 
When  we  work'd  at  the  pumps,  worn  with  labor 

and  weak, 
And  with  dread  still  beheld  the  increase  of  the  leak .' 
Sometimes  as  we  rose  on  the  wave  could  our  sight, 
From  the  rocks  of  the  shore,  catch  the  light-house's 

light ; 
In  vain  to  the  beach  to  assist  us  they  press ; 
We  fire  faster  and  faster  our  guns  of  distress ; 
Still   with  rage   unabating  the   wind   and   waves 

roar  ;  — 
How  the  giddy  wreck  reels,  as  the  billows  burst  o'er' 



Leap,  leap  ;  for  slie  yawns,  for  she  sinks  in  llie  wave  ! 
Call  on  God  to  preserve —  for  God  only  can  save  ! 


There's  an  end  of  all  troubles,  however,  at  last ! 
And  when  I  in  the  wagon  of  wounded  was  cast, 
When    my    wounds  with   the   chilly   night-wind 

smarted  sore, 
And  1  thought  of  the  friends  I  should  never  see 

No  hand  to  relieve,  scarce  a  morsel  of  bread. 
Sick  at  heart  I  have  envied  the  peace  of  the  dead. 
Left  to  rot  in  a  jail,  till  by  treaty  set  free, 
Old  England's  white  cliffs  with  what  joy  did  I  see  ! 
I  had  gain'd  enough  glory,  some  wounds,  but  no 

And  was  turn'd  on  the  public  to  shift  how  I  could. 
When  1  think  what  Tve  suffer'd,  and  where  I  am 

I  curse  him  who  snared  me  away  from  the  plough. 

When  1  was  discharged,  I  went  home  to  my  wife, 
There  in  comfort  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  my  life. 
My  wife  was  industrious ;  we  earn'd  what  we  spent, 
And  though  little  we  had,  were  with  little  content ; 
And  whenever  I  listen'd  and  heard  the  wind  roar, 
1  bless'd  God  for  my  little  snug  cabin  on  shore. 
At  midnight  they  seized  me,  they  dragg'd  me  away, 
They  wounded  me  sore  when  I  would  not  obey. 
And  because  for  my  country  I'd  ventured  my  life, 
1  was  dragg'd  like  a  thief  from  my  home  and  my 

Then  tlie  fair  wind  of  fortune  chopt  round  in  my  face, 
And  want  at  length  drove  me  to  guilt  and  disgrace. 
Butall's  for  the  best ;  —  on  the  world's  wide  sea  cast, 
1  am  haven'd  in  peace  in  this  corner  at  last. 


Come,  Dick  !  we  have  done  —  and  for  judgment 
we  call. 


And  in  faith  I  can  give  you  no  judgment  at  all. 
But  tliat  as  you're  now  settled,  and  safe  from  foul 

You  drink  up  your  grog,  and  be  merry  together. 

Oxford,  1794. 



Time,  Night.     Scene,  Tlic  Woods. 

Where  shall  I  turn  me  ?  whither  shall  I  bend 
My  weary  way .''  thus  worn  with  toil  and  faint, 
How  through  the  thorny  mazes  of  this  wood 
Attain  my  distant  dwelling?     That  deep  cry 
That  echoes  through  the  forest,  seems  to  sound 
My  parting  knell :  it  is  the  midnight  howl 
Of  hungry  monsters  prowling  for  their  prey  ! 
Again  I  O  save  me  —  save  me,  gracious  Heaven  ! 
1  am  not  fit  to  die  ! 

Thou  coward  wretch. 
Why  palpitates  thy  heart?  why  shake  thy  limbs 
Beneath  their  palsied  burden  ?     Is  there  aught 
So  lovely  in  existence  ?  wouldst  thou  drain 
Even  to  its  dregs  the  bitter  draught  of  life  ? 
Stamp'd  with  the  brand  of  Vice  and  Infamy, 
Why  should  the  felon  Frederic  shrink  from  Death.'* 

Death  1  Where  the  magic  in  that  empty  name 
That  chills  my  inmost  heart  ?  Why  at  the  thought 
Starts  the  cold  dew  of  fear  on  every  limb  .' 
There  are  no  terrors  to  surround  the  Grave, 
When  the  calm  Mind  collected  in  itself 
Surveys  that  narrow  house  :  the  ghastly  train 
That  haunt  the  midnight  of  delirious  Guilt 
Then  vanish  :  in  that  home  of  endless  rest 
All  sorrows  cease  !  —  Would  I  might  slumber  there ! 

Why  then  this  panting  of  the  fearful  heart  ? 
This  miser  love  of  life,  that  dreads  to  lose 
Its  cherish'd  torment?     Shall  a  man  diseased 
Yield  up  his  members  to  the  surgeon's  knife, 
Doubtful  of  succor,  but  to  rid  his  frame 
Of  fleshly  anguish  ;  and  the  coward  wretch, 
Whose  ulcerated  soul  can  know  no  help. 
Shrink  from  the  best  Physician's  certain  aid  ? 
Oh,  it  were  better  far  to  lie  me  down 
Here  on  this  cold,  damp  earth,  till  some  wild  beast 
Seize  on  his  willing  victim. 

If  to  die 
Were  all,  'twere  sweet  indeed  to  rest  my  head 
On  the  cold  clod,  and  sleep  the  sleep  of  Death 
But  if  the  Archangel's  trump  at  the  last  liour 
Startle  the  ear  of  Death,  and  wake  the  soul 
To  frenzy  ?  —  Dreams  of  infancy ;  fit  tales 
For  garrulous  beldames  to  affrightcn  babes  ! 
What  if  I  warr'd  upon  the  world  ?  the  world 
Had  wrong'd  me  first:  I  had  endured  the  ills 
Of  hard  injustice  ;  all  this  goodly  earth 
Was  but  to  me  one  wide  waste  wilderness  ; 
I  had  no  share  in  Nature's  patrimony  ; 
Blasted  were  all  my  morning  hopes  of  youth. 
Dark  Disappointment  followed  on  my  ways, 
Care  was  my  bosom  inmate,  Penury 
Gnaw'd  at  my  heart.     Eternal  One,  thou  know'st 
How  that  poor  heart,  even  in  the  bitter  hour 
Of  lewdest  revelry  has  inly  yearn'd 
For  peace. 

My  Father !  I  will  call  on  thee, 
Pour  to  thy  mercy-seat  my  earnest  prayer, 
And  wait  thy  righteous  will,  resign'd  of  soul. 
O  thought  of  comfort !  how  the  afflicted  heart. 
Tired  with  the  tempest  of  its  passions,  rests 
On  you  vi'ith  holy  hope  !     The  hollow  howl 
Of  yonder  harmless  tenant  of  the  woods 
Comes  with  no  terror  to  the  sober'd  sense. 
If  I  have  sinned  against  mankind,  on  them 
Be  that  past  sin ;  they  made  me  what  I  was. 
In  these  extremest  climes  Want  can  no  more 
Urge  me  to  deeds  of  darkness,  and  at  length 
Here  I  may  rest.     What  though  my  hut  be  poor — 
The  rains  descend  not  through  its  humble  roof:  — 
Would  I  were  there  again  I     The  night  is  cold  ; 
And  what  if  in  my  wanderings  1  should  rouse 
The  savajre  from  his  thicket ! 



Hark  !  the  gun  ! 
And  lo,  the  fire  of  safety  !     I  shall  reach 
My  little  hut  again  !  again  by  toil 
Force  from  the  stubborn  earth  my  sustenance, 
And  quick-ear'd  Guilt  will  never  start  alarm'd 
Amid  the  well-earn'd  meal.     This  felon's  garb  — 
Will  it  not  shield  me  from  the  winds  of  Heaven  ? 
And  what  could  purple  more  ?     O  strengthen  me, 
Eternal  One,  in  this  serener  state  ! 
Cleanse  thou  mine  heart,  so  Penitence  and  Faith 
Shall  heal  my  soul,  and  my  last  days  be  peace. 

Oxford,  1794. 



Go,  Valentine,  and  tell  that  lovely  Maid 
Wliom  fancy  still  will  portray  to  my  sight, 
How  here  I  linger  in  this  sullen  shade. 
This  dreary  gloom  of  dull,  monastic  night; 
Say,  that  from  every  joy  of  life  remote 
At  evening's  closing  hour  I  quit  tlie  throng. 
Listening  in  solitude  the  ring-dove's  note. 
Who  pours  like  me  her  solitary  song ; 
Say,  that  her  absence  calls  the  sorrowing  sigh  ; 
Say,  that  of  all  her  charms  I  love  to  speak. 
In  fancy  feel  the  magic  of  her  eye, 
in  fancy  view  the  smile  illume  her  cheek. 
Court  the  lone  hour  when  silence  stills  the  grove, 
And  heave  the  sigh  of  memory  and  of  love. 

Think,  Valentine,  as  speeding  on  thy  way 
Homeward  thou  hastest  light  of  heart  along. 
If  heavily  creep  on  one  little  day 
The  medley  crew  of  travellers  among. 
Think  on  thine  absent  friend ;  reflect  that  here 
On  life's  sad  journey  comfortless  he  roves, 
Remote  from  every  scene  his  heart  holds  dear. 
From  him  he  values,  and  from  her  he  loves. 
And  when,  disgusted  with  the  vain  and  dull. 
Whom  chance  companions  of  thy  way  may  doom. 
Thy  mind,  of  each  domestic  comfort  full. 
Turns  to  itself  and  meditates  on  home. 
Ah,  think  what  cares  must  ache  within  his  breast. 
Who  loathes  the  road,  yet  sees  no  home  of  rest. 


Not  to  thee,  Bedford,  mournful  is  the  tale 
Of  days  departed.     Time  in  his  career 
Arraigns  not  thee  that  the  neglected  year 
Hath  past  unheeded  onward.     To  the  vale 
Of  years  thou  journeyest ;  may  the  future  road 
Be  pleasant  as  the  past ;  and  on  my  friend 
Friendship  and  Love,  best  blessings,  still  attend. 
Till  full  of  days  he  reach  the  calm  abode 
Where  Nature  slumbers.     Lovely  is  the  age 

Of  virtue  :  with  such  reverence  we  behold 
The  silver  hairs,  as  some  gray  oak  grown  old 
That  whilome  mock'd  the  rushing  tempest's  ragcj 
Now  like  a  monument  of  strength  decay 'd,  [shade. 
With  rarely-sprinkled  leaves  casting  a  trembling 

IV.     CoRSTON. 

As  thus  1  stand  beside  the  murmuring  stream, 
And  watch  its  current,  memory  here  portrays 
Scenes  faintly  form'd  of  half- forgotten  days. 
Like  far-off  woodlands  by  the  moon's  bright  beam 
Dimly  descried,  but  lovely.     I  have  worn 
Amid  these  haunts  the  heavy  hours  away. 
When  childhood  idled  through  the  Sabbath-day; 
Risen  to  my  tasks  at  winter's  earliest  morn ; 
And  when  the  summer  twilight  darken'd  here, 
Thinking  of  home,  and  all  of  heart  forlorn. 
Have  sigh'd  and  shed  in  secret  many  a  tear. 
Dream-like  and  indistinct  those  days  appear, 
As  the  faint  sounds  of  this  low  brooklet,  borne 
Upon  the  breeze,  reach  fitfully  the  ear. 

V.   The  Evening  Rainbow. 
Mild  arch  of  promise,  on  the  evening  sky 
Thou  shinest  fair  with  many  a  lovely  ray 
Each  in  the  other  melting.     Much  mine  eye 
Delights  to  linger  on  thee ;  for  the  day. 
Changeful  and  many-weather'd,  seemed  to  smile. 
Flashing  brief  splendor  through  the  clouds  awhile, 
Which  deepen'd  dark  anon  and  fell  in  rain ; 
But  pleasant  is  it  now  to  pause,  and  view 
Thy  various  tints  of  frail  and  watery  hue. 
And  think  the  storm  shall  not  return  again. 
Such  is  the  smile  that  Piety  bestows 
On  the  good  man's  pale  cheek,  when  he,  in  peace 
Departing  gently  from  a  world  of  woes, 
Anticipates  the  world  where  sorrows  cease. 

With  many  a  weary  step,  at  length  I  gain 
Thy  summit,  Lansdown  ;  and  the  cool  breeze  plays 
Gratefully  round  my  brow,  as  hence  I  gaze 
Back  on  the  fair  expanse  of  yonder  plain. 
'Twas  a  long  way  and  tedious  ;  to  the  eye 
Though  fair  the  extended  vale,  and  fair  to  view 
The  autumnal  leaves  of  many  a  faded  hue, 
That  eddy  in  the  wild  gust  moaning  by, 
Even  so  it  fared  with  life :  in  discontent 
Restless  through  Fortune's  mingled  scenes  I  went. 
Yet  wept  to  think  they  would  return  no  more. 
But  cease,  fond  heart,  in  such  sad  thoughts  to  roam  j 
For  surely  thou  ere  long  shalt  reach  thy  home  ; 
And  pleasant  is  the  way  that  lies  before. 


Fair  is  the  rising  morn  when  o'er  the  sky 
The  orient  sun  expands  his  roseate  ray, 



And  lovely  to  the  musing  poet's  eye 
Fades  the  soft  radiance  of  departing  day  ; 
But  fairer  is  the  smile  of  one  we  love, 
Than  all  the  scenes  in  Nature's  ample  sway, 
And  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  grove, 
The  voice  that  bids  us  welcome.     Such  delight, 
Edith  !  is  mine,  escaping  to  thy  siglit 
From  the  cold  converse  of  the  indifferent  throng: 
Too  swiftly  then  toward  the  silent  night. 
Ye  hours  of  happiness,  ye  speed  along, 
Whilst  I,  from  all  the  world's  dull  cares  apart, 
Pour  out  the  feelings  of  my  burden'd  heart. 

How  darkly  o  er  yon  far-olF  mountain  frowns 
The  gather'd  tempest .  from  that  lurid  cloud 
The  deep- voiced  thunders  roll,  awful  and  loud, 
Though  distant ;  while  upon  the  misty  downs 
Fast  falls  in  shadowy  streaks  the  pelting  rain. 
I  never  saw  so  terrible  a  storm  ! 
Perhaps  some  way-worn  traveller  in  vain 
Wraps  his  thin  raiment  round  his  shivering  form, 
Cold  even  as  hope  within  him.     I  the  while 
Pause  here  in  sadness,  though  the  sun-beams  smile 
Cheerily  round  me.     Ah  !  that  thus  my  lot 
Might  be  with  Peace  and  Solitude  assign'd, 
Where  I  might  from  some  little  quiet  cot 
Sigh  for  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  mankind. 


0  THOU  sweet  Lark,  who,  in  the  heaven  so  high 
Twinkling  thy  wings,  dost  sing  so  joyfully, 

1  watch  thee  soaring  with  a  deep  delight; 
And  when  at  last  I  turn  mine  aching  eye 
That  lags  below  thee  in  the  Infinite, 
Still  in  my  heart  receive  thy  melody. 

O  thou  sweet  Lark,  tjiat  I  had  wings  like  thee  ! 
Not  for  the  joy  it  were  in  yon  blue  light 
Upward  to  mount,  and  from  my  heavenly  height 
Gaze  on  the  creeping  multitude  below  ; 
But  that  I  soon  would  wing  my  eager  flight 
To  that  loved  home  where  Fancy  even  now 
Hath  fled,  and  Hope  looks  onward  through  a  tear. 
Counting  the  weary  hours  tiiat  hold  her  here. 

Thou  llngerest.  Spring  I  still  wintry  is  the  scene; 
The  fields  their  dead  and  sapless  russet  wear  ; 
Scarce  doth  the  glossy  celandine  appear 
Starring  the  sunny  bank,  or  early  green 
The  elder  yet  its  clrchng  tufts  put  fortli. 
The  sparrow  tenants  still  the  eaves-built  nest 
Where  we  should  see  our  martin's  snowy  breast 
Oft  darting  out.     The  blasts  from  the  bleak  north. 
And  from  the  keener  east,  still  frequent  blow. 
Sweet  Spring,  thou  llngerest;  and  it  should  be  so, — 
Late  let  the  fields  and  gardens  blossom  out ! 
Like  man  when  most  with  smiles  thy  face  is  drcst. 

'Tis  to  deceive,  and  he  who  knows  ye  best, 
When  most  ye  promise,  ever  most  must  doubt. 
Westbury,  1799. 


Beware  a  speedy  friend,  tlie  Arabian  said, 
And  wisely  was  it  he  advised  distrust : 
The  flower  that  blossoms  earliest  fades  the  first. 
Look  at  yon  Oak  that  lifts  its  stately  head, 
And  dallies  witli  the  autumnal  storm,  whose  rage 
Tempests  the  great  sea-waves ;  slowly  it  rose, 
Slowly  its  strength  increased  through  many  an  age, 
And  timidly  did  its  light  leaves  disclose, 
As  doubtful  of  the  spring,  their  palest  green. 
They  to  the  summer  cautiously  expand, 
And  by  the  warmer  sun  and  season  bland 
Matured,  their  foliage  In  the  grove  is  seen. 
When  the  bare  forest  by  tlie  wintry  blast 
Is  swept,  still  lingering  on  the  boughs  the  last. 

XII.  To  A  Goose. 
If  thou  didst  feed  on  western  plains  of  yore  ; 
Or  waddle  wide  with  flat  and  flabby  feet 
Over  some  Cambrian  mountain's  plashy  moor ; 
Or  find  in  farmer's  yard  a  safe  retreat 
From  gypsy  thieves,  and  foxes  sly  and  fleet ; 
If  thy  gray  quills,  by  lawyer  guided,  trace 
Deeds  big  with  ruin  to  some  wretched  race. 
Or  love-sick  poet's  sonnet,  sad  and  sweet. 
Wailing  the  rigor  of  his  lady  fair ; 
Or  if,  the  drudge  of  housemaid's  dally  toil. 
Cobwebs  and  dust  thy  pinions  wliite  besoil, 
Departed  Goose  !  I  neither  know  nor  care. 
But  this  I  know,  that  we  pronounced  thee  fine, 
Season'd  with  sage  and  onions,  and  port  wine. 
London,  1798. 


I  MARVEL  not,  O  Sun !  that  unto  thee 
In  adoration  man  should  bow  the  knee, 
And  pour  his  prayers  of  mingled  awe  and  love  ; 
For  like  a  God  thou  art,  and  on  thy  way 
Of  glory  sheddest,  with  benignant  ray. 
Beauty,  and  life,  and  joyance  from  above. 
No  longer  let  these  mists  thy  radiance  shroud, 
These  cold,  raw  mists,  that  chill  the  comfortless  day. 
But  slied  thy  splendor  through  the  opening  cloud. 
And  clieer  the  earth  once  more.    The  languid  flowers 
Lie  scentless,  beaten  down  with  heavy  rain: 
Earth  asks  thy  presence,  saturate  with  showers ; 
O  Lord  of  Llglit!  put  forth  tJiy  beams  again, 
For  damp  and  cheerless  are  the  gloomy  hours. 
Westtiii-y,  1793. 


Fair  be  thy  fortunes  in  tlie  distant  land, 
Companion  of  my  earlier  years  and  friend ! 
Go  to  the  Eastern  world,  and  may  the  hand 
Of  Heaven  its  blessing  on  thy  labor  send. 



And  may  I,  if  we  ever  more  should  meet, 
See  thee  with  affluence  to  thy  native  shore 
Return'd ;  — 1  need  not  pray  that  1  may  greet 
The  same  untainted  goodness  as  before. 
Long  years  must  intervene  before  that  day  ; 
And^what  the  changes  Heaven  to  each  may  send, 
It  boots  not  now  to  bode  :  O  early  friend  ! 
Assured,  no  distance  e'er  can  wear  away 
Esteem  long  rooted,  and  no  change  remove 
The  dear  remembrance  of  the  friend  we  love. 



A  7VRINKLED,  crabbed  man  they  picture  thee, 
Old  Winter,  with  a  rugged  beard  as  gray 
As  the  long  moss  upon  the  apple-tree  ; 
Blue-lipt,  an  ice-drop  at  thy  sharp,  blue  nose, 
Close  muffled  up,  and  on  thy  dreary  way. 
Plodding  alone  through  sleet  and  drifting  snows. 
They  should  have  drawn  thee  by  the  high-heapt 

Old  Winter  !  seated  in  thy  great  arm'd  chair, 
Watching  the  children  at  their  Christmas  mirth; 
Or  circled  by  them  as  thy  lips  declare 
Some  merry  jest,  or  tale  of  murder  dire. 
Or  troubled  spirit  that  disturbs  the  night. 
Pausing  at  times  to  rouse  the  mouldering  fire. 
Or  taste  the  old  October  brown  and  bright. 

Westburij,  1799. 


PoRLOCK,  thy  verdant  vale  so  fair  to  sight, 

Thy  lofty  hills  which  fern  and  furze  embrown. 

The  waters  that  roll  musically  down 

Tliy  woody  glens,  the  traveller  with  delight 

Recalls  to  memory,  and  the  channel  gray 

Circling  its  surges  in  thy  level  bay. 

Porlock,  I  also  shall  forget  thee  not, 

Here  by  the  unwelcome  summer  rain  confined ; 

But  often  shall  hereafter  call  to  mind 

How  here,  a  patient  prisoner,  'twas  my  lot 

To  wear  the  lonely,  lingering  close  of  day, 

Making  my  Sonnet  by  the  alehouse  fire. 

Whilst  Idleness  and  Solitude  inspire 

Dull  rhymes  to  pass  the  duller  hours  away. 

August  9,  1799. 


Stately  yon  vessel  sails  adown  the  tide. 
To  some  far  distant  land  adventurous  bound ; 
The  sailors'  busy  cries  from  side  to  side, 
Pealing  among  the  echoing  rocks,  resound : 
A  patient,  thoughtless,  much-enduring  band. 
Joyful  they  enter  on  their  ocean  way. 
With  shouts  exulting  leave  their  native  land, 
And  know  no  care  beyond  the  present  day. 
But  is  there  no  poor  mourner  left  behmd. 

Who  sorrows  for  a  child  or  husband  there  ? 
Who  at  the  howling  of  the  midnight  wind 
Will  wake  and  tremble  in  her  boding  prayer  ? 
So  may  her  voice  be  heard,  and  Heaven  be  kind ! 
Go,  gallant  Ship,  and  be  thy  fortune  fair ! 
Westbury,  1799. 

O  God  !  have  mercy  in  this  dreadful  hour 
On  the  poor  mariner  !  in  comfort  here 
Safe  shelter'd  as  I  am,  I  almost  fear 
The  blast  that  rages  with  resistless  power. 
What  were  it  now  to  toss  upon  the  waves. 
The  madden'd  waves,  and  know  no  succor  near, 
The  howling  of  the  storm  alone  to  hear. 
And  the  wild  sea  that  to  the  tempest  raves ; 
To  gaze  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night. 
And  only  see  the  billow's  gleaming  light ; 
Then  in  the  dread  of  death  to  think  of  her 
Who,  as  she  listens  sleepless  to  the  gale. 
Puts  up  a  silent  prayer  and  waxes  pale .'  — 
O  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  mariner ! 

Westbury,  1799. 


She  comes  majestic  with  her  swelling  sails, 
The  gallant  Ship ;  along  her  watery  way 
Homeward  she  drives  before  the  favoring  gales ; 
Now  flirting  at  their  length  the  streamers  play, 
And  now  they  ripple  with  the  ruffling  breeze. 
Hark  to  the  sailors'  shouts !  the  rocks  rebound. 
Thundering  in  echoes  to  the  joyful  sound. 
Long  have  they  voyaged  o'er  the  distant  seas  ; 
And  what  a  heart-delight  they  feel  at  last. 
So  many  toils,  so  many  dangers  past. 
To  view  the  port  desired,  he  only  knows 
Who  on  the  stormy  deep  for  many  a  day 
Hath  tost,  aweary  of  his  watery  way, 
And  watch 'd,  all  anxious,  every  wind  that  blows. 

Westbury,  1799. 


Farewell  my  home,  my  home  no  longer  now, 
Witness  of  many  a  calm  and  happy  day  ; 
And  thou,  fair  eminence,  upon  whose  brow 
Dwells  the  last  sunshine  of  the  evening  ray, 
Farewell !  These  eyes  no  longer  shall  pursue 
The  western  sun  beyond  the  farthest  height. 
When  slowly  he  forsakes  the  fields  of  light. 
No  more  the  freshness  of  tlie  falling  dew, 
Cool  and  delightful,  here  shall  bathe  my  head. 
As  from  this  western  window  dear,  I  lean. 
Listening,  the  while  I  watch  the  placid  scene. 
The  martins  twittering  underneath  the  shed. 
Farewell,  dear  home!  where  many  a  day  has  past 
In  joys  whose  loved  remembrance  long  shall  last 

Westbury,  1799. 


Hark!  h.a\v 

p  below 

Roai-s  round  theru^gtu  iJru-,.-,._t^-i  ifitcall'd 
lis  lon^-relucLanl  victinil  1  will  coTne  !- 
One  leap, and  all  is  over! 

Jtt'fwdraniaj-.  i'.121. 





bcENE.     Tlie  Promontory  of  Leucadia. 

This  is  the  spot :  —  'tis  here,  tradition  says, 

That  hopeless  Love  from  this  high,  towering  rock 

Leaps  headlong  to  oblivion  or  to  death. 

Oh,  'tis  a  giddy  height !  my  dizzy  head 

Swims  at  the  precipice  !  —  'tis  death  to  fall ! 

Lie  still,  thou  coward  heart !  this  is  no  time 
To  shake  with  thy  strong  throbs  the  frame  con- 
To  die,  —  to  be  at  rest,  —  oh,  pleasant  thought ! 
Perchance  to  leap  and  live ;  the  soul  all  still. 
And  the  wild  tempest  of  the  passions  husht 
In  one  deep  calm ;  the  heart,  no  more  diseased 
By  the  quick  ague  fits  of  hope  and  fear, 
Quietly  cold ! 

Presidmg  Powers,  look  down  I 
In  vain  to  you  I  pour'd  my  earnest  prayers, 
In  vain  I  sung  your  praises  :  chiefly  thou, 
Venus !  ungrateful  Goddess,  whom  my  lyre 
Hymn'd  with  such  full  devotion.     Lesbian  groves. 
Witness  how  often,  at  the  languid  hour 
Of  summer  twilight,  to  the  melting  song 
Ye  gave  your  choral  echoes  !  Grecian  maids. 
Who  hear  with  downcast  look  and  flushing  cheek. 
That  lay  of  love,  bear  witness  !  and  ye  youths. 
Who  hang  enraptured  on  the  impassion'd  strain. 
Gazing  with  eloquent  eye,  even  till  the  heart 
Sinks  in  the  deep  delirium !     And  ye,  too, 
Ages  unborn  !  bear  witness  ye,  how  hard 
Her  fate  who  hymn'd  the  votive  hymn  in  vain  ! 
Ungrateful  Goddess  !  I  have  hung  my  lute 
In  yonder  holy  pile  ;  my  hand  no  more 
Shall  wake  the  melodies  that  fail'd  to  move 
Obdurate  Phaon  !  —  yet  when  rumor  tells 
How,  from  Leucadia,  Sappho  cast  herself, 
A  self-devoted  victim,  —  he  may  melt 
Too  late  in  pity,  obstinate  to  love. 

Oh  !  haunt  his  midnight  dreams,  black  Nemesis  ! 
Whom,*  self-conceiving  in  the  inmost  depths 
Of  Chaos,  blackest  Night  long  laboring  bore. 
When  the  stern  Destinies,  her  elder  brood,    [birth 
And  shapeless  Death,  from  that  more  monstrous 
Leapt  shuddering  :  Haunt  his  slumbers.  Nemesis  ! 
Scorch  with  the  fires  of  Phlegethon  his  heart. 
Till,  helpless,  hopeless,  heaven-abandon'd  wretch, 
He  too  shall  seek  beneath  the  unfathom'd  deep 
To  hide  him  from  thy  fury. 

How  the  sea 
Far  distant  glitters  as  the  sun-beams  smile, 
And  gayly  wanton  o'er  its  heaving  breast ! 
Phoebus  shines  forth,  nor  wears  one  cloud  to  mourn 
His  votary's  sorrowrs.     God  of  Day,  shine  on  !  — 
By  man  despised,  forsaken  by  the  Gods, 
I  supplicate  no  more. 

*  Ot)  Tivt  Katjir)l)ctija  ^la  tckc  NYH  epeScvvri.  —  Hesiod. 


How  many  a  day, 
O  pleasant  Lesbos !  in  thy  secret  streams 
Delighted  have  1  plunged,  from  the  hot  sun 
Screen'd   by   the   o'erarching  grove  b    delightful 

And  pillow 'd  on  the  waters !    Now  the  waves 
Shall  chill  me  to  repose. 

Tremendous  height ! 
Scarce  to  the  brink  will  these  rebellious  limbs 
Support  me.     Hark  !  how  the  rude  deep  below 
Roars  round  the  rugged  base,  as  if  it  call'd 
Its  long-reluctant  victim  !    I  will  come  !  — 
One  leap,  and  all  is  over  !     The  deep  rest 
Of  death,  or  tranquil  apathy's  dead  calm, 
Welcome  alike  to  me.     Away,  vain  fears  ! 
Phaon  is  cold,  and  why  should  Sappho  live.' 
Phaon  is  cold,  or  witli  some  fairer  one  — 
Thought  worse  than  death  ! 

She  throws  herself  from  the  precipice, 
Oxford,  1793. 


The  story  of  this  Mexican  King  is  related  by  Torquemada  in 
his  Munarqaia  Indiana,  1.  ii.  c.  2S,  and  by  the  Abate  Clavi- 
gero,  Sloria  Aiilicadcl  Messicu,  t.  i.  1.  iii.  p.  199.  Tlie  sac- 
rifice was  not  completed  ;  a  force  sent  by  his  enemy  arrived 
in  time  to  prevent  the  catastrophe  ;  he  was  carried  off  csp- 
tive,  and  destroyed  Jiimself  in  prison. 

Scene.  The  Temple  of  Mexitli. 

Subjects  !    friends !    children !    I   may   call  you 

For  I  have  ever  borne  a  father's  love 
Towards  you ;  it  is  thirteen  years  since  first 
You  saw  me  in  the  robes  of  royalty,  — 
Since  here  the  multitudes  of  Mexico 
Hail'd  me  their  King.  I  thank  you,  friends,  that  now, 
In  equal  numbers  and  with  equal  love, 
You  come  to  grace  my  death. 

For  thirteen  years 
What  I  have  been,  ye  know ;  that  with  all  care, 
That  with  all  justness  and  all  gentleness, 
Seeking  your  weal,  I  govern'd.     Is  there  one 
Whom  I  have  injured .'  one  whose  just  redress 
I  have  denied,  or  baffled  by  delay .' 
Let  him  come  forth,  that  so  no  evil  tongue 
Speak  shame  of  me  hereafter.     O  my  people, 
Not  by  my  sins  have  I  drawn  down  upon  me 
The  wrath  of  Heaven. 

The  wrath  is  heavy  on  me ! 
Heavy  !  a  burden  more  than  I  can  bear  ! 
1  have  endured  contempt,  insult,  and  wrongs 
From  that  Acolhuan  tyrant.     Should  I  seek 
Revenge.'     Alas,  my  people,  we  are  few, — 
Feeble  our  growing  state ;  it  hath  not  yet 
Rooted  itself  to  bear  the  hurricane ; 
It  is  the  lion- cub  that  tempts  not  yet 
The  tiger's  full-aged  fury.     Mexicans, 
He  sent  to  bid  me  wear  a  woman's  robe ;  — 
When  was  the  day  that  ever  1  look'd  back 



In  battle  ?     Mexicans,  the  wife  I  loved, 

To  faitli  and  friendship  trusted,  in  despite 

Of  me,  of  Heaven,  he  seized,  and  spurn'd  her  back 

Polluted  !  —  Covkfard  villain  I  and  he  lurks 

Behind  his  armies  and  his  multitudes. 

And  mocks  my  idle  wrath  !  —  It  is  not  fit  — 

It  is  not  possible  that  I  should  live  !  — 

Live  !  and  deserve  to  be  the  finger-mark 

Of  slave-contempt !  —  His  blood  I  cannot  reach. 

But  in  my  own  all  stains  may  be  effaced ; 

It  shall  blot  out  the  marks  of  infamy. 

And  when  the  warriors  of  the  days  to  come 

Tell  of  Ximalpoca,  it  shall  be  said 

He  died  the  brave  man's  death  ! 

Not  of  the  God 
Unworthy,  do  I  seek  his  altar  thus, 
A  voluntary  victim.     And  perchance 
The  sacrifice  of  life  may  profit  ye. 
My  people,  though  all  living  efforts  fail'd 
By  fortune,  not  by  fault. 

Cease  your  lament ! 
And  if  your  ill-doom'd  King  deserved  your  love. 
Say  of  him  to  your  children,  lie  was  one 
Who  bravely  bore  misfortune ;  who,  when  life 
Became  dishonor,  shook  his  body  off", 
And  join'd  the  spirits  of  the  heroes  dead. 
Yes  !  not  in  Miclanteuctli's  dark  abode 
With  cowards  shall  your  King  receive  his  doom: 
Not  in  the  icy  caverns  of  the  North 
Suffer  through  endless  ages.     He  shall  join 
Tlie  Spirits  of  the  brave,  with  them  at  morn 
Shall  issue  from  the  eastern  gate  of  Heaven, 
And  follow  through  his  fields  of  liglit  the  Sun ; 
With   them    shall  raise  the  song  and   weave  the 

dance ; 
Sport  in  the  stream  of  splendor ;  company 
Down  to  the  western  palace  of  his  rest 
The  Prince  of  Glory  ;  and  with  equal  eye 
Endure  his  centred  radiance.     Not  of  you 
Forgetful,  O  my  people,  eyen  then  ; 
But  often  in  the  amber  cloud  of  noon 
DiflTused,  will  I  o'erspread  your  summer  fields. 
And  on  the  freshen'd  maize  and  brightening  meads 
Shower  plenty. 

Spirits  of  my  valiant  Sires, 
I  come  !  Mexitli,  never  at  thy  shrine 
Flow'd  braver  blood  ;  never  a  nobler  heart 
Steam'd  up  to  thee  its  life  !     Priests  of  the  God, 
Perform  your  office ! 

Weslbury,  1798. 


(lit:  quod  f'jus  factum varie  pro  cujusque  ingenio  cstaccep- 
tuni,  ac  perinde  sermonibuB  celebratum.  Buchanan. 

Fer'asius  3.  periit  veneno  ab  uxore  dato.  Alii  scribunt  cum 
uxor  saepe  exprobrasset  ei  matrimonii  contemptum  et  pelli- 
cum  greges,  neque  quicquam  profecisset,  tandem  noctu  dor- 
mientem  ab  ea  strangulatum.  (iua-stione  de  morte  ejus 
habit&,  cum  nmicorum  plurimi  insimularentur,  nee  quigquam 
ne  in  gravissimis  quidem  tormentis  quisquam  futeretur, 
mulier,  alioqui  ferox,  tot  inuoxiorum  capitum  miserta,  in 
medium  processit,  ac  e  supeiiore  loco  caedem  a  sc  fuctum 
confeaaa,  ne  ad  ludibrium  supercsset,  pectus  cultro  transfo- 

ScENE.   The  Palace    Court.     TJie   Queen  speaking 
from  the  Battlements. 

Cease  —  cease  your  torments  !  spare  the  sufferers ! 
Scotchmen,  not  theirs  the  deed;  —  the  crime  was 

Mine  is  the  glory. 

Idle  threats  !  I  stand 
Secure.     All  access  to  these  battlements 
Is  barr'd  beyond  your  sudden  strength  to  force ; 
And  lo  !   the  dagger  by  which  Fergus  died  ! 

Shame  on  ye,  Scotchmen,  that  a  woman's  hand 
Was  left  to  do  this  deed  !     Shame  on  ye.  Thanes, 
Who  with  slave-patience  have  so  long  endured 
The  wrongs  and  insolence  of  tyranny  ! 
Cowardly  race  !  —  that  not  a  husband's  sword 
Smote  that  adulterous  King  !  that  not  a  wife 
Revenged  her  own  pollution  ;  in  his  blood 
Wash'd  herself  pure,  and  for  the  sin  compell'd 
Atoned  by  righteous  murder!  — O  my  God  I 
Of  what  beast-matter  hast  thou  moulded  them 
To  bear  with  wrongs  like  these  ?   There  was  a  time 
When  if  the  Bard  had  feign'd  you  such  a  tale. 
Your  eyes  had  throbb'd  with  anger,  and  your  hand, 
In  honest  instinct  would  have  grasp'd  the  sword. 

0  miserable  men,  who  have  disgraced 

Your  fathers,  whom  your  sons  must  blush  to  name ! 

Ay,  —  ye  can  threaten  me  !  ye  can  be  brave 
In  anger  to  a  woman  !  one  whose  virtue 
Upbraids  your  coward  vice  ;  whose  name  will  live 
Honor'd  and  praised  in  song,  when  not  a  hand 
Shall  root  from  your  forgotten  monuments 
The  cankering  moss.     Fools  I  fools  !  to  think  that 

Is  not  a  thing  familiar  to  my  mind ; 
As  if  I  knew  not  what  must  consummate 
My  glory  !  as  if  aught  that  earth  can  give 
Could  tempt  me  to  endure  the  load  of  life  !  — 
Scotchmen !  ye  saw  when  Fergus  to  the  altar 
Led  me,  his  maiden  Queen.     Ye  blest  me  then, 

1  heard    you   bless    me,  —  and    I   thought    that 

Had  heard  you  also,  and  that  I  was  blest; 
For  I  loved  Fergus.     Bear  me  witness,  God ! 
With  what  a  heart  and  soul  sincerity 
My  lips  pronounced  the  unrccallable  vow 
That  made  me  his,  him  mine  ;  bear  witness.  Thou  ! 
Before  whose  throne  I  this  day  must  appear 
Stain'd  with  his  blood  and  mine  !  My  heart  was 

his,  — 
His  in  the  strength  of  all  its  first  aff'ections. 
In  all  obedience,  in  all  love,  I  kept 
Holy  my  marriage-vow.     Behold  me.  Thanes ! 
Time  hath  not  changed  the  face  on  which  his  eye 
So  often  dwelt,  when  with  assiduous  care 
He  sought  my  love,  with  seeming  truth,  for  one, 
Sincere  herself,  impossible  to  doubt. 
Time  hath  not  changed  that  face  ! — I  speak  not 

With  pride  of  beauties  that  will  feed  the  worm 



To-morrow ;  but  with  honest  pride  I  say, 
That  if  the  truest  and  the  purest  love 
Deserved  requital,  such  was  ever  mine. 
How  often  reeking  from  the  adulterous  bed 
Have  I  received  him  !  and  with  no  complaint. 
Neglect  and  insult,  cruelty  and  scorn, 
Long,  long  did  I  endure,  and  long  curb  down 
The  indignant  nature. 

Tell  your  countrymen, 
Scotchmen,  what  I  have  spoken !     Say  to  them 
Ye  saw  the  Queen  of  Scotland  lift  the  dagger 
Red  from  her  husband's  heart;  that  in  her  own 
She  plunged  it.  Slabs  herself. 

Tell  them  also,  that  she  felt 
No  guilty  fear  in  death. 

Westbury,  1793. 


Scene.     The  House  of  CoUatine. 

Welcome,  my  father!  good  Valerius, 
Welcome  !  and  thou  too,  Brutus !  ye  were  both 
My  wedding  guests,  and  fitly  ye  are  come. 
My  husband  —  Collatine  —  alas!  no  more 
Lucretia's  husband,  for  thou  shalt  not  clasp 
Pollution  to  thy  bosom,  —  hear  mo  on  ! 
Fc-  '  ivist  *el!  *hee  all. 

I  sat  at  eve 
Spinning  amid  my  maidens  as  I  wont, 
When  from  the  camp  at  Ardea  Sextus  came. 
Curb  down  thy  swelling  feelings,  Collatine  ! 
1  little  liked  the  man  !  yet,  for  he  came 
From  Ardea,  for  he  brought  me  news  of  thee, 
I  gladly  gave  him  welcome  ;  gladly  listen 'd, — 
Thou  canst  not  tell  how  gladly  — to  his  tales 
Of  battles,  and  the  long  and  perilous  siege  ; 
And  when  I  laid  me  down  at  night  to  sleep, 
'Twas  with  a  lighten'd  heart,  —  I  knew  thee  safe  ; 
My  visions  were  of  thee. 

Nay,  hear  me  out  I 
And  be  thou  wise  in  vengeance,  so  thy  wife 
Not  vainly  shall  liave  sufFer'd.     I  have  wrought 
My  soul  up  to  the  business  of  this  hour. 
That  it  may  stir  your  noble  spirits,  and  prompt 
Such  glorious  deeds  that  ages  yet  unborn 
Shall  bless  my  fate.     At  midnight  I  awoke  ; 
The  Tarquin  was  beside  me  !  O  my  husband. 
Where    wert   thou   then !     gone    was    my    rebel 

strength  — 
All  power  of  utterance  gone  !  astonish'd,  stunn'd, 
1  saw  the  coward  ruffian,  heard  him  urge 
His  wicked  suit,  and  bid  me  tamely  yield,  — 
Yield  to  dishonor.     When  he  proffer'd  death, — 
Oh,  I  had  leap'd  to  meet  themerciful  sword  I 
But  that  with  most  accursed  vows  he  vow'd, 
That  he  would  lay  a  dead  slave  by  my  side, 
Murdering  my  spotless  honor.  —  Collatine, 
From  what  an  anguish  have  I  rescued  thee  I 
And  thou,  my  father,  wretched  as  thou  art. 
Thou  miserable,  childless,  poor  old  man, — 
Think,  father,  what  that  agony  had  been  ! 
Now  thou  mayst  sorrow  for  me,  thou  mayst  bless 
The  memory  of  thy  poor,  polluted  child. 

Look  if  it  have  not  kindled  Brutus'  eye  : 
Mysterious  man  !   at  last  I  know  thee  now ; 
I  see  thy  dawning  glories !  —  to  the  grave 
Not  unrevenged  Lucretia  shall  descend  ; 
Not  always  shall  her  wretched  country  wear 
The  Tarquin's  yoke  !     Ye  will  deliver  Rome, 
And  1  have  comfort  in  this  dreadful  hour. 

Thinkest    thou,   my   husband,  that    I   dreaded 
death .'  * 

O  Collatine  !  the  weapon  that  had  gored 
My  bosom  had  been  ease,  been  happiness, — 
Elysium,  to  the  hell  of  his  hot  grasp. 
Judge  if  Lucretia  could  have  fear'd  to  die  I 

Stabs  herself. 
Bristol,  1799. 


This  monodrania  was  written  sovoral  years  before  the  author 
liad  any  intention  of  treating  at  greater  lengtli  the  jjortion 
of  Spanish  history  to  which  it  relates.  It  is  founded  upon 
the  following  passage  in  the  Historia  Vertladcra  del  Rnj  Dun 
Rodrigo,  which  Miguel  de  I^una  translated  from  the  Arahic. 
Avieiidose  despcdido  en  la  Ciudad  de  Cordoba  el  Conde 
Don  Julian  de  aqucllos  Octicrales,  rccogio  toda  su  grate,  dcu- 
dos  y  criados  ;  y  porque  svs  ticrras  cstavun  tan  perdidas  y 
maltratada^,  sefea  d  un  Uigar  pequeno,  que  cstdfabricado  en 
la  ribcra  del  mar  Mediterraneo,  en  la  provinr.ia  que  Human 
Vandalucia,  dla  qual  iiombraron  los  Christiunos en  sulengua 
Vdlaviciosa.  Y  uviendo  llegudo  d  ella,  did  orden  de  ernbiar 
por  su  muger,  y  I'ija,  que  cstacan  detenidns  en  aquellas  partes 
de  .Africa,  en  una  Ciudad  que  estd  en  la  ribcra  del  mar,  la 
qual  se  llama  Taiijer,  para  desde  nlli  nguardar  el  succsso 
de  la  conquitita  de  EspaTia  en  que  aria  de  parar :  las  qualcs 
llegadas  en  aquclla  Villa,  el  Covde  D.  Julian  las  rccibio  con 
mucho  content!},  porque  tenia  bien  scntida  su  larga  auscncia. 
y  aciendo  descansado,  dcsde  alii  el  Conde  dava  orden  con 
mucha  diUgcncia  parapoblar  yrcstaurar  sus  ticrras,  para  ir 
d  vivir  d  ellas.  Su  hija  estaim  muy  triste  y  ofiigida ;  y  por 
mucho  que  sii  padre  y  madre  la  regalaran,  nunca  la  podian 
contcntar,  ni  alcgrar.  Imuginara  la grande perdida  de  Espana, 
y  la  grande  destruicion  de  los  Cliristianos,  con  tautas  mucrtes, 
y  cautiverios,  robadas  sus  liazicndas,  y  que  dla  liuviessc  sido 
causa  principal,  cabcza,  y  ocasiun  de  aquclla pcrdiciun  ;  y  sobre 
todo  cllo  le  crccian  mas  sus  pcsadumbres  en  verse  dcshonrada, 
y  sin  esperanza  de  tener  estado,  segun  clla  dcscava.  Con  esta 
imaginacion,  enganada  del  demonio,  dclirmind  cntrcsi  de 
morir  descspcrada  ;  y  un  dia  sc  siibid  d  una  torre,  cerrando  la 
pucrta  dclla  por  dedcntrn,  porque  nofuesse  estorvada  de  aquel 
hecho  que  qucria  hazcr  ;  y  dizo  d  una  ama  suya,  que  le  llamasse 
d  su  padre  y  madre,  que  les  queria  dciir  un  poco.  Y  sicndo 
vcnidos,  desde  lo  alto  dc  aquclla  torre  les  hizo  un  razonamirniO 
muy  lastimoso,  diziendoles  alfin  del,  qucmvgcr  tan  desdichada 
como  ella  era,  y  tan  desvrnturada,  no  merrcia  vivir  en  ci 
mundo  con  tanla  dishonra,  mayormente  uviendo  sido  causa  de 
tunto  maly  destruicion.  Yluego  les  diio,  Pudrrs,  cnmemoria 
de  mi  desdicha,  de  aqui  adelante  no  se  llame  esta  Ciudad,  Villa, 
viciosa,  sino  Malaca  ;  Oy  se  acaba  en  ella  la  vias  mala  muger 
que  huvo  en  d  mundo.  Y  acahadas  cstas  palabras,  sin  7nas 
Qir  d  sus  padres,  ni  d  nadie  de  los  que  estavan  presentes,  por 
miichos  rucgos  que  la  hizieron,  y  amonestacioncs  que  no  se 
echasse  abaio,  se  dezd  cacr  en  cl  suelo  ;  y  llevada  medio  mucrta, 
vivid  como  Ires  dias,  y  hiego  murio.  —  Fue  causa  cste  desastre 
y  desrspcracion  de  mucho  escandalo,  y  notable  mcmoria,  entrc 
los  Moro.1  y  Cliristianos  ;  y  dcsde  alle  adelante  se  llamo  aquella 
Ciudad  Malaga  corruptamcnte  por  los  Christianas  ;  y  de  los 
Arabesfuc  llamada  Malaca,  en  mcmoria  dc  aquellas  palabras 
que  dizo  quando  se  echd  de  la  torre,  no  se  llame  Villaviciosa, 
.lino  Malaca,  porque  ca,  en  lenguaje  Ktiiaiiol  quiere  deiir  por- 
que ;  y  porque  dizo,  ca,  oy  se  acaba  en  ella  la  mas  mala  muger 
que  huvo  en  el  mundo,  .le  compuso  este  nombre  de  Mala  y  ca.  — 
Cap.  xviii.  pp.  81,  83. 



Bleda,  who  has  incorporated  Miguel  de  Luna's  etory  in  his 
Crunica  de  los  Moras  de  Espana,pp  193,  194,  has  the  fol- 
lowing curious  passage  concerning  La  Caba. 

Fae  la  hcrinosxtra  desta  daina  no  menos  dahosa  a  Espana, 
que  la  de  Elena  d  Troija.  IJamaronla  los  Moras  por  mal 
nombrc  La  Caca;  y  nota  el  Padre  Fray  Estavan  de  Salazar, 
Cartuxo,  en  las  duicursos  doctissimos  sabre  cl  Credo,  que  esto 
no  fae  sin  mystcrio :  jmrque  cl  nombre  de  nuestra  primera 
madre  en  el  Hebreo  no  se  pranuncia  E':a,  sino  Cavah  .-  de 
suerte  que  tuvieran  un  mcsmu  nombre  dos  mugercs  que  faeron 
ruyna  de  los  hombrcs,  la  una  en  todo  el  muiulo,  y  la  otra  en 
Espana.  —  Bleda,  p.  14G.  * 

Morales  supposes  that  tlie  Gate  at  Malaga  derived  its  name 
not  from  the  death  of  La  Caba,  but  from  her  having  passed 
through  it  on  her  way  to  Africa. 

En  Malaga  he  vlsto  la  pucrta  en  cl  muro,  que  llaman  de  La 
Cava,  y  diccn  le  qucdd  aquel  nombre,  habicndo  salido  esta  vez 
por  ella  embarcarse.  Y  la  gran  desvcntura  que  luego  sucedid, 
dez6  Iristenicnte  notable  aquel  lugar.  —  BIorales,  1.  xii.  cap. 
Ixvii.  §  4. 

The  very  different  view  which  I  have  taken  of  this  subject 
when  treating  it  upon  a  great  scale,  renders  it  proper  to  sub- 
stitute for  Julian,  in  this  earlier  production,  the  name  of  Ilian, 
for  which  the  Corunica  de  Espana  affords  authority,  and  to 
call  his  daughter  as  she  is  named  in  that  spirited  Ode  by  P. 
Luis  de  Leon,  of  which  a  good  translation  may  be  found  in 
Russell's  poems. 

Father  !  Count  Ulan  !  here  —  what  here  I  say,  — 
Aloft  —  look  up  1  —  ay,  father,  here  I  stand, 
Safe  of  my  purpose  now  !     The  way  is  barr'd ;  — 
Thou   need'st  not   hasten   hither !  —  Ho  !    Count 

1  tell  thee  I  have  barr'd  the  battlements ! 
I  tell  thee  that  no  human  power  can  curb 
A  desperate  will.     The  poison  and  the  knife  — 
These  thou  couldst  wrest  from  me ;  but  here  I 

Beyond  thy  thrall  —  free  mistress  of  myself. 
Though  thou  hadst  wings,  thou  couldst  not   over- 
My  purpose.     1  command  my  destiny. 
Would  I  stand  dallying  on  Death's  threshold  here. 
If  it  were  possible  that  hand  of  man 
Could  pluck  me  back  ? 

Why  didst  thou  bring  me  here 
To  set  my  foot,  reluctant  as  I  was, 
On  this  most  injured  and  unhappy  land .' 
Yonder  in  Afric  —  on  a  foreign  shore, 
1  might  have  linger'd  out  my  wretched  life  — 
I  might  have  found  some  distant  lurking  place, 
Where  my  accursed  tale  was  never  known ; 
Where  Gothic  speech  would  never  reach  my  ear,  — 
Where  among  savages  I  might  have  fled 
The  leprous  curse  of  infamy  !  But  here  — 
In  Spain,  —  in  my  own  country ;  —  night  and  morn 
Where  all  good  people  curse  me  in  their  prayers ; 
Where  every  Moorish  accent  that  I  hear 
Doth  tell  me  of  my  country's  overthrow, 
Doth  stab  me  like  a  dagger  to  the  soul ; 

Here here  —  in  desolated  Spain,  whose  fields 

Yet  reek  to  Heaven  with  blood,  —  whose  slaugh- 

ter'd  sons 
Lie  rotting  in  the  open  light  of  day, 
My  victims ;  — said  1,  mine  ?    Nay  —  Nay,  Count 

They  are  thy  victims !  at  the  throne  of  God 
Their  spirits  call  for  vengeance  on  thy  head ; 
Their  blood  is  on  thy  soul,  —  even  I,  myself. 

I  am  thy  victim  too,  —  and  this  death  more 
Must  yet  be  placed  in  Hell  to  thy  account. 

O  my  dear  country  !  O  my  mother  Spain  ! 
My  cradle  and  my  grave  !  —  for  thou  art  dear; 
And  nursed  to  thy  undoing  as  I  was. 
Still,  still  I  am  thy  child  —  and  love  thee  still; 
I  shall  be  written  in  thy  chronicles 
The  veriest  wretch  that  ever  yet  betray'd 
Her  native  land !  From  sire  to  son  my  name 
Will  be  transmitted  down  for  infamy  I  — 
Never  again  will  mother  call  her  child 
La  Caba,  —  an  Iscariot  curse  will  lie 
Upon  the  name,  and  children  in  their  songs 
Will  teach  the  rocks  and  hills  to  echo  with  it 
Strumpet  and  traitoress ! 

This  is  thy  work,  father 
Nay,  tell  me  not  my  shame  is  wash'd  away  — 
That  all  this  ruin  and  this  misery 
Is  vengeance  for  my  wrongs.     I  ask'd  not  this,  — 
I  call'd  for  open,  manly,  Gothic  vengeance. 
Thou  wert  a  vassal,  and  thy  villain  lord 
Most  falsely  and  most  foully  broke  his  faith ; 
Thou  wert  a  father,  and  the  lustful  king 
By  force  abused  thy  child  !  —  Thou  hadst  a  sword  ; 
Shame  on  thee  to  call  in  the  cimeter 
To  do  thy  work!     Thou  wert  a  Goth  —  a  Chris- 
Son  of  an  old  and  honorable  house,  — 
It  was  my  boast,  my  proudest  happiness, 
To  think  I  was  the  daughter  of  Count  Ulan. 
Fool  that  I  am  to  call  this  African 
By  that  good  name  !  O  do  not  spread  thy  hands 
To  me  !  —  and  put  not  on  that  father's  look  ! 
Moor !  turbaned  misbeliever !  renegade  ! 
Circumcised  traitor  !    Thou  Count  Illan,  Thou  !  — 
Thou  my  dear  father?  —  cover  me,  O  Earth.'* 
Hell,  hide  me  from  the  knowledge  ! 

Bristol,  1802. 





She  held  a  Cup  mid  Ball  of  ivory  white. 
Less  white  the  ivory  than  her  snoicy  hand ! 
Enrapt,  I  watch' d  her  from  my  secret  stand, 
As  now,  intent,  in  innocent  delight. 
Her  taper  fingers  twirl'd  the  giddy  ball. 
Now  tost  it,  following  still  with  eagle  sight. 
Now  on  the  pointed  end  infixed  its  fall. 
Marking  her  sport  I  mused,  and  musing  sigh'd. 
Methought  the   ball    she  play'd   with   was   my 


(Alas  !  that  sport  like  that  should  be  her  pride  !) 
And  the  keen  point  which  steadfast  still  she  eyed 
Wherewith  to  pierce  it, that  was  Cupid's  dart; 
Shall  I  not  then  the  cruel  Fair  condemn 
Who  on  that  dart  impales  my  bosom's  gem  ' 





Rash  Painter!  canst  thou  give  the  orb  of  dav 

In  all  its  noontide  glory  ?  or  portray 

Tlie  DIAMOND,  that  athwart  the  tapcr'd  hall 

Flings  the  rich  flashes  of  its  dazzling  light  ? 

Even  if  thine  art  could  boast  such  -magic  viight^ 

Yet  if  it  strove  to  paint  vuj  Angel's  eye, 

Here  it  perforce  must  fail.     Cease  !  lest  I  call 

Heaven'' s  vengeance  on  thy  sin.     Must  thou  be  told 

The  CRIME  it  is  to  paint  divinity.' 

Rash  Painter  !  should  the  world  her  charms  behold, 

Dim  and  defiled,  as  there  they  needs  must  be, 

They  to  their  old  idolatry  would  fall, 

And  bend  before  her  form  the  pagan  knee, 

Fairer  than  Venus,  daughter  of  the  sea. 


HE    PROVES    the    EXISTENCE    OF    A  SOUL    FROM 
ins    LOVE    FOR    DELIA. 

Some  have  denied  a  soul !  they  never  loved. 
Far  from  my  Delia  now  by  fate  removed, 
At  home,  abroad,  I  viewed  her  every  where  ; 
Her  only  in  the  flood  of  noon  I  sec. 
My  Goadess  Maid,  my  omnipresent  fair, 
For  LOVE  annihilates  the  world  to  me! 
And  when  the  weary  Sol  around  his  bed 
Closes  the  sable  curtains  of  the  night, 
Sun  of  my  slumbers,  on  my  dazzled  sight 
She  shines  confest.     When  everij  sound  is  dead. 
The  SPIRIT  OF  HER  VOICE  comes  then  to  roll 
The  surge  of  music  o'er  my  wavy  brain. 
Far,  far  from  her  my  Body  drags  its  chain, 
But  sure  with  Delia  /  exist  a  soul  ' 


A    PORTRAIT    IN    DELIa's    PARLOR. 

I  WOULD  I  were  that  portly  Gentleman 
With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane. 
Who  hangs  in  Delia's  parlor !  For  whene'er 
From  book  or  needlework  her  looks  arise. 
On  him  converge  the  sun-beams  of  her  eyes, 
And  he  unhlamed  may  gaze  upon  my  fair. 
And  oft  MY  FAIR  h\s  favor d  form  surveys. 

0  HAPPY  PICTURE  !  still  on  her  to  gaze  ; 

1  envy  him !  and  jealous  fear  alarms. 

Lest  the  strong  glance  of  those  divinest  charms 
Warm  him  to  life,  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  marble  melted  in  Pygmalion's  arms. 
I  would  I  were  that  portly  Gentleman 
With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane. 




'Tis  mine  !  what  accents  can  my  joy  declare  .' 
Blest  be  the  pressure  of  the  thronging  routl 

Blest  be  the  hand  so  hasty  of  my  fair. 

That  left  the  tempting  corner  hanging  out ! 

I  envy  not  the  joy  the  pilgrim  feels. 
After  long  travel  to  some  distant  shrine, 

When  at  the  relic  of  his  saint  he  kneels. 

For  Delia's  pocket-handkerchief  is  mine. 

When  first  with  filching  fingers  I  drew  near, 
Keen  hope  shot  tremulous  through  every  vem 

And  when  the  finish' d  deed  removed  my  fear. 
Scarce  could  my  bounding  heart  its  joy  contain 

What  though  the  Eighth  Commandment  rose  to 

It  only  served  a  moment's  qualm  to  move ; 
For  thefts  like  this  it  could  not  be  design'd ;  [love  ! 

T?ie  Eighth  Commandment  was  not  made  for 

Here  when  she  took  the  macaroons  from  me, 
She  wiped  her  mouth  to  clean  the  crumbs  so  sweet ! 

Dear  napkin  !  yes,  slie  wiped  her  lips  in  thee  ! 
Lips  sweeter  than  the  macaroons  she  eat. 

And  when  she  took  that  pinch  of  Mocabaw, 
That  made  my  Love  so  delicately  sneeze. 

Thee  to  her  Roman  nose  applied  I  saw, 

And  thou  art  doubly  dear  for  things  like  these. 

No  washerwoman's  filthy  hand  shall  e'er. 
Sweet  pocket-handkerchief!  thy  worth  pro- 
fane ; 

For  thou  hast  touch'd  the  rubies  of  my  fair, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  o'er  and  o'er  asain. 



Ye  Sylphs,  who  banquet  on  my  Delia's  blush. 
Who  on  her  locks  of  floating  gold  repose, 

Dip  in  her  check  your  gossamery  brush. 

And  with  its  bloom  of  beauty  tinge  the  rose. 

Hover  around  her  lips  on  rainboic  wing, 

Load  from  her  honey'd  breath  your  ricwZcjs feet. 

Bear  thence  a  richer  fragrance  for  the  Spring, 
And  make  the  lily  and  the  violet  sweet. 



Ye  Gnomes,  whose  toil  through  many  a  dateless  year 
Its  nurture  to  the  infant  gem  supplies, 

From  central  caverns  bring  your  diamonds  here, 
To  ripen  in  the  sun  of  Delia's  eves. 

And  ye  who  bathe  in  Etna's  lava  springs, 
Spirits  of  fire  I  to  see  my  love  advance  ; 

Fly,  Salamanders,  on  Asbestos'  wings, 
To  wanton  in  my  DeYm's  fiery  glance. 

She  weeps,  she  weeps  !  her  eye  with  anguish  swells, 
Some  tale  of  sorrow  melts  my  feeling  girl  ! 

Nymphs  !  catch  the  tears,  and  in  your  lucid  shells 
Enclose  them,  embryos  of  the  orient  pearl. 

She  sings  !  the  Nightingale  with  envy  hears. 
The  Cherub  listens  from  his  starry  throne. 

And  motionless  are  stopp'd  the  attentive  Spheres, 
To  hear  more  heavenly  music  than  their  own. 

Cease,  Delia,  cease  !  for  all  the  angel  throng. 
Hearkening  to  thee,  let  sleep  their  golden  wires  ! 

Cease,  Delia,  cease  that  too  surpassing  song. 
Lest,  stung  to  envy,  they  should  break  their  lyres. 

Cease,  ere  my  senses  are  to  madness  driven 
By  the  strong  joy  !  Cease,  Delia,  lest  my  soul, 

Enrapt,  already  think  itself  in  heaven, 
Jlnd  burst  the  feeble  Bodifs  frail  control. 


the  poet  expatiates  on  the  beauty  of  Delia's 

The  comb  between  whose  ivory  teeth  she  strains 
The  straitening  curls  of  gold  so  beamy  bright, 

Not  spotless  merely  from  the  touch  remains. 
But  issues  forth  more  pure,  more  milky  white. 

The  rose-pomatum  that  the  Friseur  spreads 
Sometimes  with  honor'd  fingers  for  my  fair 

No  added  perfume  on  her  tresses  sheds. 

But  borrows  sweetness  from  her  sweeter  hair. 

Happy  the  Friseur  who  in  Delia's  hair 

With  licensed  fingers  uncontroll'd  may  rove  ! 

And  happy  in  his  death  the  dancing  bear. 
Who  died  to  make  pomatum  for  my  love. 

Oh  could  I  hope  that  e'er  my  favor'd  lays 

Might  curl  those  lovely  loc/cs  with  conscious  pride. 

Nor    Hammond,   nor    the    Mantuan    Shepherd's 
I'd  envy  then,  nor  wish  reward  beside. 

Cupid  has  strung  from  you,  O  tresses  fine, 
The  bow  that  in  my  breast  impcll'd  his  dart ; 

From  you,  sweet  locks !  he  wove  the  subtile  line 
Wherewith  the  urchin  angled  for  my  heart. 

Fine  are  my  Delia's  tresses  as  the  threads 

That  from  the  silk-worm,  self-interr'd,  proceed  ; 

Fine  as  the  gleamy  Gossamer  that  spreads 
Its  filmy  web-work  o'er  the  tangled  mead. 

Yet  with  these  tresses  Cupid's  power  elate 
My  captive  heart  has  handcuff' d  in  a  chain. 

Strong  as  the  cables  of  some  huge  first-rate. 
That  bears  Britannia's  thunders  o'er  the 

The  Sylphs  that  round  her  radiant  locks  repair, 
Inflowing  lustre  bathe  their  brightening  wings  ; 

And  Elfin  Minstrels  with  assiduous  care 
The  ringlets  rob  for  faery  fiddle-strings. 


the   poet   relates   how  he   stole  a  lock  of 
Delia's  hair,  and  her  anger. 

Oh  !  be  the  day  accurst  that  gave  me  birth ! 

Ye  Seas,  to  swallow  me  in  kindness  rise  ! 
Fall  on  me,  Mountains  I  and  thou  merciful  Earth, 

Open,  and  hide  me  from  my  Delia's  eyes ! 

Let  universal  Chaos  now  return. 

Now  let  the  central  fires  their  prison  burst. 

And  earth,  and   heaven,  and    air,  and    ocean 
burn  — 
For  Delia  FROWNS  —  she  frowns,  and /am  C7ir5f.' 

Oh !  I  could  dare  the  fury  of  the  fight, 

Where  hostile  millions  sought  my  single  life  ; 

Would  storm  volcano  batteries  with  delight, 
And  grapple  with  grim  death  in  glorious  strife. 

Oh  !  1  could  brave  the  bolts  of  angry  Jove, 

When  ceaseless  lightnings  fire  the  midnight  skies  : 

What  is  his  wrath  to  that  of  her  I  love .' 

What  is  his  lightning  to  my  Delia's  eyes.' 

Go,  fatal  lock  I  I  cast  thee  to  the  wind ; 

Ye  serpent  curls,  ye  poison-tendrils,  go  ! 
Would  I  could  tear  thy  memory  from  my  mind, 

Accursed  lock,  —  thou  cause  of  all  niy  woe  ! 

Seize  the  curst  curls,  ye  Furies,  as  they  fly  ! 

Demons  of  Darkness,  guard  the  infernal  roll. 
That  thence  your  cruel  vengeance,  when  I  die. 

May  knit  the  knots  of  torture /or  my  soul. 

Last  night,  —  Oh  hear  me.  Heaven,  and  grant  my 
prayer ! 

The  book  of  fate  before  thy  suppliant  lay, 
And  let  me  from  its  ample  records  tear 

Only  the  single  page  of  yesterday! 

Or  let  me  meet  old  Time  upon  his  flight, 
And  I  will  stop  him  on  his  restless  way ; 

Omnipotent  in  Love's  resistless  might, 

Til  force  him  back  the  road  of  yesterday. 

Last  night,  as  o'er  the  page  of  Love's  despair, 
My  Delia  bent  deliciously  to  grieve, 



1  stood  a  treacherous  loiterer  by  her  chair, 
And  drew  tlie  fatal  scissous  from  my  sleeve : 

And  would  that  at  that  instant  o'er  my  thread 
The  SHEARS  OK  Atkoi'os  had  opon'd  then; 

And  when  I  reft  the  lock  fi-oni  Delia's  head, 
Had  cut  me  sudden  from  the  sons  of  men ! 

She  heard  the  scissors  that  fair  lock  divide. 

And  whilst  my  heart  with  transport  panted  big, 

She  cast  a  fury  frown  on  me,  and  cried, 
"  You  stupid  Puppy, — you  have  spoil'dmy  Wig !  " 

Westbury,  1799. 



Tiv  yap  irora  uaojiai 

^Epxoiitidv  vcKVuiii  dvd  t'  ripia,  Kai  jiCXav  alpa. 


Dark  Horror !  hear  my  call ! 
Stern  Genius,  hear  from  thy  retreat 
On  some  old  sepulchre's  moss-canker'd  seat. 
Beneath  the  Abbey's  ivied  wall 
That  trembles  o'er  its  shade ; 
Where  wrapt  in  midnight  gloom,  alone. 
Thou  lovest  to  lie  and  hear 
The  roar  of  waters  near, 
And  listen  to  the  deep,  dull  groan 
Of  some  perturbed  sprite. 
Borne  fitful  on  the  heavy  gales  of  night. 

Or  whether  o'er  some  wide  waste  hill 
Thou  see'st  the  traveller  stray, 

Bewilder'd  on  his  lonely  way. 
When,  loud,  and  keen,  and  chill. 
The  evening  winds  of  winter  blow, 

Drifting  deep  the  dismal  snow. 

Or  if  thou  followest  now  on  Greenland's  shore. 

With  all  thy  terrors,  on  the  lonely  way 

Of  some  wreck'd  mariner,  where  to  the  roar 

Of  herded  bears,  the  floating  ice-hills  round 

Return  their  echoing  sound, 

And  by  the  dim,  drear  Boreal  light 

Givest  half  his  dangers  to  the  wretch's  sight. 

Or  if  thv  fury  form. 
When  o'er  the  midnight  deep 
The  dark-wing'd  tempests  sweep, 
Beholds  from  some  high  cliff  the  increasing  storm, 
Watching  with  strange  delight, 
As  the  black  billows  to  the  thunder  rave, 
When  by  tlie  lightning's  light 
Thou  see'st  the  tall  ship  sink  beneath  the  wave. 

Bear  me  in  spirit  where  the  held  of  fight 
Scatters  contagion  on  the  tainted  gale, 
When,  to  the  Moon's  faint  beam, 
On  many  a  carcass  shine  the  dews  of  night. 

And  a  dead  silence  stills  the  vale,    [screarn. 
Save  when  at  times  is  heard  the  glutted  Raven's 

Where  some  wreck'd  army  from  the  Conqueror's 
Speed  their  disastrous  flight,  [might 

With  thee,  fierce  Genius !  let  me  trace  their  way, 
And  hear  at  times  the  deep  heart-groan 
Of  some  poor  suff'erer  left  to  die  alone ; 
And  we  will  pause,  where,  on  tlie  wild. 
The  mother  to  her  breast. 
On  the  heap'd  snows  reclining,  clasps  her  child, 
Not  to  be  pitied  now,  for  both  are  now  at  rest. 

Black  Horror  !  speed  we  to  the  bed  of  Death, 
Where  one  who  wide  and  far 
Hath  sent  abroad  the  myriad  plagues  of  war 
Struggles  with  his  last  breath  ; 
Then  to  his  wildly-starting  eyes 
The  spectres  of  the  slaughter'd  rise ; 
Then  on  his  frenzied  ear 
Their  calls  for  vengeance  and  the  Demons'  yell 
In  one  heart-maddening  chorus  swell ; 
Cold  on  his  brow  convulsing  stands  the  dew, 
And  night  eternal  darkens  on  his  view. 

Horror  !  I  call  thee  yet  once  more  ! 

Bear  me  to  that  accursed  shore. 

Where  on  the  stake  the  Negro  writhes. 

Assume  thy  sacred  terrors  then  !  dispense 
The  gales  of  Pestilence  ! 
Arouse  the  oppress'd  ;  teach  them  to  know  their 

power ; 
Lead  them  to  vengeance !  and  in  that  dread  hour 
When  ruin  rages  wide, 
I  will  behold  and  smile  by  Mercy's  side. 

Bristol,  1791. 


Kai  naya;  (j>t\ioini  tov  iyyvOcv  rjxov  aKOveiv, 
"A  TcpiTst  ipoipioiixa  tov  aypiKOv,  oixi  rapdaati. 


Faint  gleams  the  evening  radiance  through  the  sky. 
The  sober  twilight  dimly  darkens  round ; 
In  short  quick  circles  the  shrill  bat  flits  by, 
And  the  slow  vapor  curls  along  the  ground. 

Now  the  pleased  eye  from  yon  lone  cottage  sees 
On  the  green  mead  the  smoke  long-shadowing  play; 
The  Red-breast  on  the  blossom'd  spray 
Warbles  wild  her  latest  lay  ; 
And  lo !  the  Rooks  to  yon  high-tufled  trees 
Wing  in  long  files  vociferous  their  way. 
Calm  Contemplation,  'tis  thy  favorite  hour' 
Come,  tranquillizing  Power  ! 



I  view  thee  on  the  cahny  shore 
When  Ocean  stills  his  waves  to  rest ; 
Or  when  slow-moving  on  the  surges  hoar 
Meet  with  deep,  hollow  roar, 
And  whiten  o'er  his  breast ; 
And  when  the  Moon  with  softer  radiance  gleams. 
And  lovelier  heave  tlie  billows  in  her  beams. 

When  the  low  gales  of  evening  moan  along, 
1  love  with  thee  to  feel  the  calm,  cool  breeze. 

And  roam  the  pathless  forest  wilds  among, 
Listening  the  mellow  murmur  of  the  trees 

Full-foliaged,  as  they  wave  their  heads  on  high. 

And  to  the  winds  respond  in  symphony. 

Or  lead  me  where,  amid  the  tranquil  vale. 
The  broken  streamlet  J3ows  in  silver  light ; 
And  I  will  linger  where  the  gale 
O'er  the  bank  of  violets  sighs. 
Listening  to  hear  its  soften'd  sounds  arise, 
And  hearken  the  dull  beetle's  drowsy  flight, 

And  watch  the  tube-eyed  snail 
Creep  o'er  his  long,  moon-glittering  trail, 
And  mark  where  radiant  tlirough  the  night 
Shines  in  the  grass-green  hedge  tlie  glow-vv^orm's 
living  light. 

Thee,  meekest  Power  !  I  love  to  meet. 
As  oft  with  solitary  pace 
The  ruin'd  Abbey's  hallowed  rounds  I  trace, 
And  listen  to  the  echoings  of  my  feet. 
Or  on  some  half-demolish'd  tomb, 
Whose  warning  texts  anticipate  my  doom, 

Mark  the  clear  orb  of  night 
Cast  through  the  ivied  arch  a  broken  light. 

Nor  will  I  not  in  some  more  gloomy  hour 
Invoke  with  fearless  awe  thine  holier  power. 
Wandering  beneath  the  sacred  pile 
When  the  blast  moans  along  the  darksome  aisle, 
And  clattering  patters  all  around 
The  midnight  shower  with  dreary  sound. 

But  sweeter  'tis  to  wander  wild. 
By  melancholy  dreams  beguiled. 
While  the  summer  moon's  pale  ray 
Faintly  guides  me  on  my  way 
To  some  lone,  romantic  glen. 
Far  from  all  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Where  no  noise  of  uproar  rude 
Breaks  the  calm  of  solitude; 
But  soothing  Silence  sleeps  in  all. 
Save  the  neighboring  waterfall. 
Whose  hoarse  waters,  falling  near. 
Load  with  hollow  sounds  the  ear. 
And  with  down-dash'd  torrent  white 
Gleam  hoary  through  the  shades  of  night. 

Thus  wandering  silent  on  and  slow, 
I'll  nurse  Reflection's  sacred  woe. 
And  muse  upon  the  happier  day 
When  Hope  would  weave  her  visions  gay. 
Ere  Fancy,  chill'd  by  adverse  fate, 
Left  sad  Reality  my  mate. 

O  Contemplation  !  when  to  Memory's  eyes 
Tiie  visions  of  the  long-past  days  arise. 
Thy  holy  power  imparts  the  best  relief, 
And  the  calm'd  Spirit  loves  the  joy  of  grief. 

BriUol,  1792. 


Oh  my  faithful  Friend  ! 
Oh  early  chosen,  ever  found  the  same, 
And  trusted  and  beloved  !  once  more  the  verse 
Long  destined,  always  obvious  to  tliine  ear, 
Attend  indulgent.  Akenside. 

And  wouldst  thou  seek  the  low  abode 
Where  Peace  delights  to  dwell .' 
Pause,  Traveller,  on  thy  way  of  life  ! 
With  many  a  snare  and  peril  rife 
Is  that  long  labyrinth  of  road  ! 
Dark  is  the  vale  of  years  before ; 
Pause,  Traveller,  on  thy  way. 
Nor  dare  the  dangerous  path  explore 
Till  old  Experience  comes  to  lend  his  leading  ray. 

Not  he  who  comes  with  lantern  light 
Shall  guide  thy  groping  pace  aright 

With  faltering  feet  and  slow; 
No  !  let  him  rear  the  torch  on  high. 

And  every  maze  shall  meet  thine  eye. 
And  every  snare  and  every  foe  ; 

Then  with  steady  step  and  strong, 

Traveller,  shall  thou  march  along. 

Though  Power  invite  thee  to  her  hall. 
Regard  not  thou  her  tempting  call. 
Her  splendor's  meteor  glare  ; 
Though  courteous  Flattery  there  await. 
And  Wealth  adorn  the  dome  of  State, 
There  stalks  the  midnight  spectre  Care  : 
Peace,  Traveller,  doth  not  sojourn  there. 

If  Fame  allure  thee,  climb  not  thou 
To  that  steep  mountain's  craggy  brow 

Where  stands  her  stately  pile  ; 
For  far  from  thence  doth  Peace  abide. 
And  thou  shalt  find  Fame's  favoring  smile 
Cold  as  the  feeble  Sun  on  Hccla's  snow-clad  side 

And,  Traveller !  as  thou  hopest  to  find 
That  low  and  loved  abode. 
Retire  thee  from  the  thronging  road, 
And  shun  the  mob  of  human-kind. 
Ah  !  hear  how  old  Experience  schools  — 
"  Fly,  fly  the  crowd  of  Knaves  and  Fools, 
"  And  thou  shalt  fly  from  woe  ! 
"  The  one  thy  heedless  heairt  will  greet 
"  With  Judas-smile,  and  thou  wilt  meet 
"  In  every  Fool  a  Foe !  " 

So  safely  mayst  thou  pass  from  these, 
And  reach  secure  the  home  of  Peace, 



And  Friendship  (Ind  tlice  there ; 
No  happier  state  can  mortal  know, 
No  happier  lot  can  Earth  bestow, 
If  Love  thy  lot  shall  share. 
Yet  still  Content  with  him  may  dwell 
Whom  Hymen  will  not  bless. 
And  Virtue  sojourn  in  the  cell 
Of  hermit  llai)])iiK'ss. 

Bi-istol,  1793. 


The  reiiioiiilirancc  ot' Voutli  is  a  si^li All 

Man  liath  a  weary  pilgrimage 
As  tliroiigh  the  world  he  wends, 
On  every  stage  i'rom  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  days  that  are  no  more. 

To  school  the  little  e.xile  goes, 
Torn  ii-om  his  mother's  arms,  — 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes, 

When  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms .' 
Condemn'd  to  sufier  through  the  day 
Restraints  wiiich  no  rewards  repay, 
And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  slie  counts  tiie  hours 
Before  his  wish'd  return. 
From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules. 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools. 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers  witii  a  sigh 
The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes  ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harass'd  heart 
Its  consolation  find .' 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells. 

Life's  sunnner  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah  no  I  for  hopes  too  long  delay  "d 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betray'd, 

Its  fabled  bliss  destroy  ; 
And  Youth  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives. 

And  other  thoughts  come  on, 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone ; 
Cold,  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed. 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye. 
Remembering  with  an  envious  sigh 

The  happy  dreams  of  Youth. 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 

Of  this  our  mortal  pilgimage, 
With  feeble  step  and  slow ; 

New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  E.xperience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 
Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by; 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er  ; 
Yet  Age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 

Westbnnj,  1798. 



Weary  way-wanderer,  languid  and  sick  at  heart, 
Travelling  painfully  over  the  rugged  road,  [one  ! 
Wild-visaged  Wanderer  !   God  help  thee,  wretched 

Sorely  thy  little  one  drags  by  thee  barefooted ; 
Cold  is  the  baby  that  hangs  at  thy  bending  back, 
Meagre,  and  livid,  and  screaming  for  misery. 

*  Woe-begone  mother,  half  anger,  half  agony, 
As  over  thy  shoulder  thou  lookest  to  hush  the  babe. 
Bleakly  the  blinding  snow  beats  in  tliy  haggard  face. 

Ne'er  will  thy  husband  return  from  tjic  war  again, 
Cold  is  thy  heart,  and  as  frozen  as  Charity  !  [forter ! 
Cold  are  thy  children.  —  Now  God  be  thy  com- 

Bristol,  1795. 



Cor.D  was  the  night  wind,  drifting  fast  the  snow  fell, 
Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and  naked. 
When  a  poor  Wanderer  struggled  on  her  journey, 
Weary  and  way-sore. 

Drear  were  the  downs,  more  dreary  her  reflections , 
Cold  was  the  night-wind,  colder  was  her  bosom ; 
She  had  no  home,  the  world  was  all  before  her, 
She  had  no  slielter. 

Fast  o'er  the  heath  a  chariot  rattled  by  her, 
"  I'ity  me  I  "  feebly  cried  the  lonely  wanderer; 
"  I'ity  me,  strangers  !  lest  with  cold  and  hunger 
Here  I  should  perish. 

"  Once  I  had  friends,  —  thougli  now  by  all  forsaken ' 
Once  I  had  parents,  —  they  are  now  in  heaven  1 
I  had  a  home  once  —  I  had  once  a  husband  — 
Pity  ine,  strangers ! 

"  I  had  a  home  once  —  1  had  once  a  husband  •• 
1  am  a  widow,  poor  and  broken-hearted  !  " 
Loud  blew  the  wind;  unheard  was  her  complaining, 
On  drove  the  chariot. 

*  Tliis  stanza  was  wiitlcn  l)y  S.  '1".  Coli:rioue. 



Then  on  the  snow  she  laid  her  down  to  rest  her ; 
She  heard  a  horseman ;   "Pity  me!"  she  groan'd 

Loud  was  the  wind ;  unheard  was  her  complaining ; 
On  went  the  horseman. 

Worn  out  with  anguish,  toil,  and  cold,  and  hunger, 
Down  sunk  the  Wanderer;  sleep  had  seized  her 

senses ; 
There  did  the  traveller  find  her  in  the  morning; 
God  had  released  her. 

Bristol,  1795. 


Lo  1,  the  man  who  from  the  Muse  did  ask 
Her  deepest  notes  to  swell  the  Patriot's  meeds, 

Am  now  enforced,  a  far  unfitter  task. 
For  cap  and  gown  to  leave  my  minstrel  weeds ; 

For  yon  dull  tone,  that  tinkles  on  the  air, 
Bids  me  lay  by  the  lyre  and  go  to  morning  prayer. 

0  how  I  hate  the  sound !  it  is  the  knell 
That  still  a  requiem  tolls  to  Comfort's  hour ; 

And  loath  am  I,  at  Superstition's  bell. 

To  quit  or  Morpheus'  or  the  Muse's  bower : 
Better  to  lie  and  doze,  than  gape  amain, 
Hearing  still  mumbled  o'er  the  same  eternal  strain. 

Thou  tedious  herald  of  more  tedious  prayers, 
Say,  dost  thou  ever  summon  from  his  rest 

One  being  wakening  to  religious  cares  .' 
Or  rouse  one  pious  transport  in  the  breast  ? 

Or  rather,  do  not  all  reluctant  creep 
To  linger  out  the  time  in  listlessness  or  sleep  .' 

1  love  the  bell  that  calls  the  poor  to  pray. 

Chiming  from  village  church  its  cheerful  sound, 
When  the  sun  smiles  on  Labor's  holy-day, 

And  all  the  rustic  train  are  gather'd  round, 
Each  deftly  dizen'd  in  his  Sunday's  best, 
And  pleased  to  hail  the  day  of  piety  and  rest. 

And  when,  dim  shadowing  o'er  the  face  of  day, 
The  mantling  mists  of  even-tide  rise  slow, 

As  through  the  forest  gloom  I  wend  my  way, 
The  minster  curfew's  sullen  voice  1  know, 

And  pause,  and  love  its  solemn  toll  to  hear, 
As  made  by  distance  soft  it  dies  upon  the  ear. 

Nor  with  an  idle  nor  unwilling  car 
Do  I  receive  the  early  passing-bell ; 

For,  sick  at  heart  with  many  a  secret  care, 
When  I  lie  listening  to  the  dead  man's  knell, 

1  think  that  in  the  grave  all  sorrows  cease. 
And  would  full  fain  recline  my  head  and  be  at  peace. 

But  thou,  memorial  of  monastic  gall ! 

What  fancy  sad  or  lightsome  hast  thou  given.' 
Thy  vision-scaring  sounds  alone  recall 

The  prayer  that  trembles  on  a  yawn  to  heaven, 
The  snuffling,  snaffling  Fellow's  nasal  tone, 
id  Romish  rites  retaln'd,  though  Romish  faith  be 

Oxford,  1793. 


God  of  the  torch,  vi^hose  soul-illuming  flame 
Beams  brightest  radiance  o'er  the  human  heart, 

Of  many  a  woe  the  cure, 

Of  many  a  joy  the  source ; 

To  thee  I  sing,  if  haply  may  the  Muse 

Pour  forth  the  song  unblamcd  from  these  dull  haunts, 

Where  never  beams  thy  torch 

To  cheer  the  sullen  scene. 

I  pour  the  song  to  thee,  though  haply  doom  d 
Alone  and  unbeloved  to  pass  my  days ; 

Though  doom'd  perchance  to  die 

Alone  and  unbewall'd. 

Yet  will  the  lark,  albeit  in  cage  enthrall'd. 
Send  out  her  voice  to  greet  the  morning  sun, 
As  wide  his  cheerful  beams 
Light  up  the  landscape  round  ; 

When  high  in  heaven  she  hears  the  caroling. 
The  prisoner  too  begins  her  morning  hymn, 

And  hails  the  beam  of  joy, 

Of  joy  to  her  denied. 

Friend  to  each  better  feeling  of  the  soul, 
I  sing  to  thee,  for  many  a  joy  is  thine, 

And  many  a  Virtue  comes 

To  join  thy  happy  train. 

Lured  by  the  splendor  of  thy  sacred  torch. 

The  beacon-light  of  bliss,  young  Love  draws  near, 

And  leads  his  willing  slaves 

To  wear  thy  flowery  chain. 

And   chasten'd  Friendship  comes,  whose  mildest 

Shall  cheer  the  hour  of  age,  when  fainter  burn 

The  fading  flame  of  Love, 

The  fading  flame  of  Life. 

Parent  of  every  bliss,  the  busy  hand 
Of  Fancy  oft  will  paint  in  brightest  hues 

How  calm,  how  clear,  thy  torch 

Illumes  the  wintry  hour ; 

Will  paint  the  wearied  laborer  at  that  hour. 
When  friendly  darkness  yields  a  pause  to  toil, 

Returning  blithely  home 

To  each  domestic  joy  ; 

Will  paint  the  well-trimm'd  fire,  the  frugal  meal 
Prepared  with  fond  solicitude  to  please ; 

The  ruddy  children  round 

Climbing  the  father's  knee. 

And  oft  will  Fancy  rise  above  the  lot 
Of  honest  Poverty,  and  think  how  man 

Nor  rich,  nor  poor,  enjoys 

His  best  and  happiest  state ; 

When  toil  no  longer  irksome  and  constrain  a 
By  hard  necessity,  but  comes  to  please, 



To  vary  the  still  hour 
Of  tranquil  happiness. 

Why,  Fancy,  wilt  thou,  o'er  the  lovely  scene 
Pouring  thy  vivid  hues,  why,  sorceress  bland, 

Soothe  sad  reality 

With  visionary  bliss  ? 

Turn  thou  thine  eyes  to  where  the  hallowed  light 
Of  Learning  shines  ;  ah,  rather  lead  thy  son 

Along  her  mystic  paths 

To  drink  the  sacred  spring. 

Lead  calmly  on  along  the  unvaried  path 
To  solitary  Age's  drear  abode ;  — 

Is  it  not  happiness 

That  gives  the  sting  to  Death  ? 

Well  then  is  he  wliose  unimbitter'd  years 
Are  waning  on  in  lonely  listlessness ; 
If  Life  hath  little  joy. 
Death  hath  for  him  no  sting. 

Oxford,  1794. 



Though  now  no  more  the  musing  ear 
Delights  to  listen  to  the  breeze. 
That  lingers  o'er  the  green-wood  shade, 
I  love  thee.  Winter  !  well. 

Sweet  arc  the  harmonies  of  Spring  ; 
Sweet  is  the  Summer's  evening  gale  ; 
And  sweet  the  Autumnal  winds  that  shake 
The  many-color'd  grove. 

And  pleasant  to  the  sober'd  soul 
The  silence  of  the  wintry  scene, 
When  Nature  shrouds  herself,  entranced 
In  deep  tranquillity. 

Not  undelightful  now  to  roam  4t 

The  wild  heath  sparkling  on  the  sight  j 
Not  undelightful  now  to  pace 
The  forest's  ample  rounds ;  — 

And  see  the  spangled  branches  shine ; 
And  mark  the  moss  of  many  a  hue 
That  varies  the  old  tree's  brown  bark. 
Or  o'er  the  gray  stone  spreads;  — 

And  see  the  cluster'd  berries  bright 
Amid  the  holly's  gay  green  leaves ; 
The  ivy  round  the  leafless  oak 
That  clasps  its  foliage  close. 

So  Virtue,  diffident  of  strength, 
Clings  to  Religion's  firmer  aid; 
So,  by  Religion's  aid  upheld, 
Endures  calamity. 

Nor  void  of  beauties  now  the  spring, 
Whose  waters  hid  from  summer-sun 
Have  soothed  the  thirsty  pilgrim's  car 
Witii  more  than  melody. 

Green  moss  shines  there  with  ice  incased  ; 
The  long  grass  bends  its  spear-like  form ; 
And  lovely  is  the  silvery  scene 
When  faint  the  sun-beams  smile. 

Reflection,  too,  may  love  the  hour 
When  Nature,  hid  in  Winter's  grave, 
No  more  expands  the  bursting  bud, 
Or  bids  the  floweret  bloom  ; 

For  Nature  soon  in  Spring's  best  charms. 
Shall  rise  revived  from  Winter's  grave. 
Expand  the  bursting  bud  again. 
And  bid  the  flower  re-bloom. 

Bath,  1793. 



Come,  melancholy  Moralizer,  come  ! 

Gather  with  me  the  dark  and  wintry  wreatn ; 

With  me  engarland  now 

The  Sepulchre  of  Time. 

Come,  Moralizer,  to  the  funeral  song  ! 
I  pour  the  dirge  of  the  Departed  Days; 

For  well  the  funeral  song 

Befits  this  solemn  hour. 

But  hark !  even  now  the  merry  bells  ring  round 
With  clamorous  joy  to  welcome  in  this  day, 

This  consecrated  day 

To  Joy  and  Merriment. 

Mortal !  while  Fortune  with  benignant  hand 
Fills  to  the  brim  thy  cup  of  happiness. 

Whilst  her  unclouded  sun 

Illumes  thy  summer  day, — 

Canst  thou  rejoice,  —  rejoice  that  Time  flies  fast:* 
That  night  shall  shadow  soon  thy  summer  sun.' 

That  swift  the  stream  of  Years 

Rolls  to  Eternity  ^ 

If  thou  hast  wealth  to  gratify  each  wish. 
If  power  be  thine,  remember  what  thou  art ! 

Remember  thou  art  Man, 

And  Death  thine  heritage  ! 

Hast  thou  known  Love  !  Doth  Beauty's  better  sun 
Cheer  thy  fond  heart  with  no  capricious  smile, 

Her  eye  all  eloquence. 

All  harmony  her  voice .' 

Oh  state  of  happiness  !  — Ilark  !  how  the  gale 
Moans  deep  and  hollow  through  the  leafless  grove  I 

Winter  is  dark  and  cold  ; 

Where  now  the  charms  of  Spring ! 



Say'sl  tliou  that  Fancy  paints  the  future  scene 
In  hues  too  sonibrous  ?  that  the  dark-stoled  Maid 

With  frowning  front  severe 

Aj)palls  tlie  shuddering  soul .' 

And  wouldst  thou  bid  me  court  lit>r  fairy  form, 
When,  as  she  sports  lier  in  some  happier  mood, 

Her  many-colored  robes 

Float  varying  in  the  sun  ? 

Ah  !  vainly  does  the  Pilgrim,  whose  long  road 
Leads  o'er  a  barren  mountiin's  storm-vex'd  height, 

With  wistful  eye  behold 

Some  quiet  vale,  far  off. 

And  tliere  are  those  who  love  the  pensive  song. 
To  whom  all  sounds  of  Mirth  are  dissonant; 

Them  in  accordant  mood 

This  thoughtful  strain  will  find. 

For  liopeless  Sorrow  hails  tlie  lapse  of  Time, 
Rejoicing  when  tlie  fading  orb  of  day 

Is  sunk  again  in  night. 

That  one  day  more  is  gone. 

And  he  who  bears  Affliction's  heavy  load 
With  patient  piety,  well  pleased  he  knows 

The  World  a  pilgrimage. 

The  Grave  his  inn  of  rest. 

Batit,  1794. 



Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Praver  ! 

I  to  the  woodlands  wend,  and  there 
In  lovely  Nature  see  the  God  of  Love. 

The  swelling  organ's  peal 

Wakes  not  my  soul  to  zeal. 
Like  the  sweet  music  of  the  vernal  grove. 
The  gorgeous  altar  and  the  mystic  vest 
Excite  not  such  devotion  in  my  breast. 

As  where  the  noon-tide  beam, 

Flash'd  from  some  broken  stream, 
V^ibrates  on  the  dazzled  sight; 

Or  where  the  cloud-suspended  rain 

Sweeps  in  shadows  o'er  the  plain ; 
Or  when,  reclining  on  the  cliffs  huge  height, 
1  mark  the  billows  burst  in  silver  light. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer  ! 

1  to  the  Woodlands  shall  repair. 

Feed  with  all  Nature's  charms  mine  eyes. 

And  hear  all  Nature's  melodies. 

The  primrose  bank  will  there  dispense 

Faint  fragrance  to  the  awaken'd  sense  ; 

The  morning  beams  that  life  and  joy  impart. 

Will  with  their  influence  warm  my  heart. 

And  the  full  tear  that  down  my  cheek  will  steal. 

Will  speak  the  prayer  of  praise  I  feel. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer ! 
1  to  the  Woodlands  bend  my  way, 

And  meet  Religion  there  ! 
She  needs  not  haunt  the  high-arch'd  dome  to  pray. 
Where  storied  windows  dim  the  doubtful  day  ; 
At  liberty  she  loves  to  rove, 

Wide  o'er  the  healthy  hill  or  cowslip'd  dale  • 
Or  seek  the  shelter  of  the  embowering  grove. 

Or  with  the  streamlet  wind  along  the  vale. 
Sweet  are  these  scenes  to  her  ;  and  when  the  Night 
Pours  in  the  North  her  silver  streams  of  light, 
She  wooes  reflection  in  the  silent  gloom. 
And  ponders  on  the  world  to  come. 

Bristol.  1795. 



"  Fly,  son  of  Banquo  !  Flcance,  fly  ! 
Leave   thy  guilty  sire  to  die  !  " 
O'er  the  heath  the  stripling  fled. 
The  wild  storm  howling  round  his  head  : 
Fear,  mightier  through  the  shades  of  night. 
Urged  his  feet,  and  wing'd  his  flight; 
And  still  he  heard  his  father's  cry, 
"  Fly,  son  of  Banquo  1  Fleance,  fly  1  " 

"  Fly,  son  of  Banquo  !  Fleance,  fly  ! 

Leave  thy  guilty  sire  to  die  !  " 

On  every  blast  was  heard  the  moan. 

The  anguish'd  shriek,  the  death-fraught  groan ; 

Loathly  night-hags  join  the  3'ell, 

And  lo  I  — the  midnight  rites  of  Hell ! 

"  Forms  of  magic  !  spare  my  life  ! 
Shield  me  from  the  murderer's  knife  ! 
Before  me,  dim  in  lurid  light. 
Float  the  phantoms  of  the  night  — 
Behind  I  hear  my  father  cry, 
Fly,  son  of  Banquo  —  Fleance,  fly  !  " 

"  Parent  of  the  sceptred  race, 
Boldly  tread  the  circled  space. 
Boldly,  Fleance,  venture  near. 
Sire  of  monarchs,  spurn  at  fear. 
Sisters,  with  prophetic  breath. 

Pour  we  now  the  dirge  of  Death  !  " 

^f     *     w     -it     *     « 

Oxford,  1793. 

JANUARY  23,  1796. 


When  at  morn,  the  Muleteer 
With  early  call  announces  day. 
Sorrowing  that  early  call  I  hear, 
Which  scares  the  visions  of  delight  away 
For  dear  to  me  the  silent  hour 
When  sleep  exerts  its  wizard  power. 
And  busy  fancy,  then  let  free. 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  Hope,  my  Edith,  fliea  to  thee. 



When  the  slant  sunbeams  crest 
The  mountain's  shadowy  breast ; 
When  on  the  upland  slope 
Shines  the  green  myrtle  wet  with  morning  dew, 
And  lovely  as  the  youthful  dreams  of  Hope, 
The  (lim-sccn  landscape  opens  on  the  view, 
I  gaze  around,  with  raptured  eyes. 
On  Nature's  charms,  where  no  illusion  lies. 
And  drop  the  joy  and  memory  mingled  tear, 
And  sigh  to  think  that  Edith  is  not  here. 


At  the  cool  hour  of  even. 

When  all  is  calm  and  still, 

And  o'er  the  western  hill 
A  richer  radiance  robes  the  mellow'd  heaven, 

Absorb'd  in  darkness  thence. 

When  slowly  fades  in  night 

The  dim,  decaying  light, 
Like  the  fair  day-dreams  of  Benevolence ; 

Fatigued,  and  sad,  and  slow 

Along  my  lonely  way  I  go. 

And  muse  upon  the  distant  day, 
And  sigh,  remembering  Edith  far  away. 

When  late  arriving  at  our  inn  of  rest, 

Whose  roof,  exposed  to  many  a  winter's  sky, 
Half  shelters  from  the  wind  the  shivering  guest; 

By  the  lamp's  melancholy  gloom, 

1  see  the  miserable  room. 

And  musing  on  the  evils  that  arise 

From  disproportion'd  inequalities. 

Pray  that  my  lot  may  be 

Neither  with  Riches,  nor  with  Poverty, 

But  in  tiiat  happy  mean, 

Which  for  the  soul  is  best, 

And  with  contentment  blest, 

In  some  secluded  glen 
To  dwell  with  Peace  and  Edith  far  from  men. 

I  look'd  abroad  at  noon. 
The  shadow  and  the  storm  ivere  on  the  hills , 
The  crags  which  like  a  faery  fabric  shone 

Darkness  had  overcast. 

On  you,  ye  coming  years, 
So  fairly  shone  the  April  gleam  of  hope  ; 
So  darkly  o'er  the  distance,  late  so  bright, 

Now  settle  the  black  clouds. 

Come  thou,  and  chase  away 
Sorrow  and  Pain,  the  persecuting  Powers 
Who  make  the  melancholy  day  so  long, 

So  long  the  restless  night. 

Shall  we  not  find  thee  here, 
Recovery,  on  the  salt  sea's  breezy  strand  .' 
Is  there  no  healing  in  the  gales  that  sweep 

The  thymy  mountain's  brow  ' 

I  look  for  thy  approach, 
O  life-preserving  Power  !  as  one  who  strays 
Alone  in  darkness  o'er  the  pathless  marsh. 

Watches  the  dawn  of  day. 

Minehead,  July,  1799. 


Rf.covkry,  where  art  thou.' 
Daughter  of  Heaven,  vchere  shall  we  seek  thy  help .' 
Upon  what  hallow'd  fountain  hast  thou  laid, 

0  Nymph  adored,  thy  spell  .•■ 

By  the  gray  ocean's  verge, 
Daughter  of  Heaven,  we  seek  thee,  but  in  vain  ; 
We  find  no  healing  in  the  breeze  that  sweeps 

The  thymy  mountain's  brow. 

Where  are  the  happy  hours, 
The  sunshine  where,  that  cheer'd  the  morn  of  life  ? 
For  Health  is  fled,  and  with  her  fled  the  joys 

Which  made  existence  dear. 

1  saw  the  distant  hills 

Smile  in  the  radiance  of  the  orient  beam. 
And  gazed  delighted  that  anon  our  feet 
Should  visit  scenes  so  fair 


With  cheerful  step  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  early  way, 
When  first  the  dimly-dawning  east 

Reveals  the  rising  day. 

He  bounds  along  his  craggy  road, 
He  hastens  up  the  height, 

And  all  he  sees  and  all  he  hears 
Administer  delight. 

And  if  the  mist,  retiring  slow, 
Roll  round  its  wavy  white. 

He  thinks  the  morning  vapors  hide 
Some  beauty  from  his  sight. 

But  when  behind  the  western  cloiid.<: 

Departs  the  fading  day, 
How  wearily  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  evening  way  ! 

Sorely  along  the  craggy  road 
His  painful  footsteps  creep, 

And  slow,  with  many  a  feeble  pause, 
He  labors  up  the  steep. 

And  if  the  mists  of  night  close  round, 
They  fill  his  soul  with  fear ; 

He  dreads  some  unseen  precipice, 
Some  hidden  danger  near. 

So  cheerfully  docs  youth  begm 
Life's  pleasant  morning  stage  ; 

Alas  I  the  evening  traveller  feels 
The  fears  of  wary  age  I 

VVestburij.  1798. 




Alas  for  the  Oak  of  our  Fathers,  that  stood 
In  its  beauty,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  wood  ! 

It  grew  and  it  flourish'd  for  many  an  age, 

And  many  a  tempest  wreak'd  on  it  its  rage ; 

But  when  its  strong  brandies  were  bent  with  the 

It  struck  its  root  deeper,  and  flourish  d  more  fast. 

Us  head  tower'd  on  high,  and  its  branches  spread 
round:  [sound; 

For  its  roots  had  struck  deep,  and  its  heart  was 
The  bees  o'er  its  honey-dew'd  foliage  play'd. 
And  the  beasts  of  tlie  forest  fed  under  its  shade. 

Tlie  Oak  of  our  Fatliers  to  J>cedom  was  dear  ; 
Its  leaves  were  her  crown,  and  its  wood  was  her  spear. 
Alas  for  the  Oak  of  our  Fathers,  that  stood 
In  its  beauty,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  wood  ! 

Tliere  crept  up  an  ivy  and  clung  round  the  trunk  ; 
It  struck  in  its  mouths  and  the  juices  it  drunk  ; 
The  branches  grew  sickly,  deprived  of  their  food, 
And  the  Oak  was  no  longer  tlie  pride  of  the  wood. 

The  foresters  saw  and  they  gather'd  around  ; 
The  roots  still  were  fast,  and  the  heart  still  was  sound ; 
They  lopp'd  off  the  boughs  that  so  beautiful  spread. 
But  tlie  ivy  they  spared  on  its  vitals  that  fed. 

No  longer  the  l)cos  o'er  its  honey-dews  play'd. 
Nor  the  beasts  of  the  forest  fed  under  its  shade  ; 
Lopp'd  and  mangled  tlie  trunk  in  its  ruin  is  seen, 
A  monument  now  what  its  beauty  has  been. 

The  Oak  has  received  its  incurable  wound; 
They  liave   loosen'd  the  roots,  though   the  heart 
may  be  sound  ;  [see, 

What  the  travellers  at  distance  green-flourishing 
Are  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  that  poison'd  the  tree. 

Alas  for  the  Oak  of  our  Fathers,  that  stood 
In  its  beauty,  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  wood  ! 

Westbunj,  1798. 


On  Vorska's  glittering  waves 
The  morning  sunbeams  play  ; 
Pultowa's  walls  are  throng'd 

With  eager  multitudes ; 

Athwart  the  dusty  vale 
They  strain  their  aching  eyes, 
Where  to  the  fight  moves  on 
The  Conqueror  Charles,  the  iron-hearted  Swede. 

nim  Famine  hath  not  tamed, 

The  tamer  of  the  brave; 
Him  Winter  hath  not  quell'd  ; 
When  man  by  man  his  veteran  troops  sunk  down. 
Frozen  to  their  endless  sleep, 
He  held  undaunted  on 

Him  Pain  hath  not  subdued  ; 
What  though  he  mounts  not  now 
The  fiery  steed  of  war .' 
Borne  on  a  litter  to  the  field  he  goes. 

Go,  iron-hearted  King  ! 
Full  of  thy  former  fame  — 
Think  how  the  humbled  Dane 
Crouch'd  underneath  thy  sword  ; 
Think  how  the  wretched  Pole 
Resign'd  his  conquer'd  crown  ; 
Go,  iron-hearted  King  ! 
Let  Narva's  glory  swell  thy  haughty  breast,  — 
The  death-day  of  thy  glory,  Charles,  hath  dawn'd! 
Proud  Swede,  the  Sun  hath  risen 
That  on  thy  shame  shall  set ! 

Now,  Patkul,  may  thine  injured  spirit  rest ! 
For  over  that  relentless  Swede 
Ruin  hath  raised  his  unrelenting  arm  ; 

For  ere  the  night  descends, 

His  veteran  host  destroyed, 
His  laurels  blasted  to  revive  no  more, 

He  flies  before  the  Moscovite. 

Impatiently  that  haughty  heart  must  bear 
Long  years  of  hope  deceived  ; 

Long  years  of  idleness 
That  sleepless  soul  must  brook. 
Now,  Patkul,  may  thine  injured  spirit  rest ' 
To  him  who  suff'ers  in  an  honest  cause 
No  death  is  ignominious  ;  not  on  thee, 
But  upon  Charles,  the  cruel,  tlie  unjust. 
Not  upon  thee,  —  on  him 
The  ineffaceable  reproach  is  fix'd, 
The  infamy  abides. 
Now,  Patkul,  may  thine  injured  spirit  rest. 

Westbui-y,  1798. 


Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller 

The  song  amid  the  sky. 
Where,  twinkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  skylark  soars  on  high. 

And  cheering  to  the  traveller 
The  gales  that  round  him  play, 

When  faint  and  heavily  he  drags 
Along  his  noon-tide  way. 

And  when  beneath  the  unclouded  sun 

Full  wearily  toils  he, 
The  flowing  water  makes  to  him 

A  soothing  melody. 

And  when  the  evening  light  decays, 

And  all  is  calm  around. 
There  is  sweet  music  to  his  ear 

In  the  distant  sheep-bell's  sound. 

But  oh  !  of  all  delightful  sounds 
Of  evening  or  of  morn. 



The  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  Love, 
That  welcomes  his  return. 

Westbury,  1798. 


AND    HOW    HE    GAINED    THEM. 

5  ou  are  old.  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried  ; 

The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray ; 
Vou  are  hale.  Father  William,  a  hearty  old  man  ; 

Now  tell  me  tlie  reason,  1  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William  replied, 
I  remember'd  that  youth  would  tly  fast. 

And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor  at  first. 
That  1  never  might  need  them  at  last. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried, 
And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone  ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

in  the  days  of  my  youth.  Father  William  replied, 
I  remember'd  that  youth  could  not  last ; 

I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I  did. 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past. 

You  are  old.  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried. 

And  life  must  bo  hastening  away  ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon  death ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I  am  cheerful,  young  man.  Father  William  replied; 

Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage  ; 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember'd  my  God  ! 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 

Wcstbunj,  1799. 


CAMBRIDGE,  1793. 

Hail,  venerable  Night! 
O  first-created,  hail ! 
Thou  who  art  doom'd  in  thy  dark  breast  to  veil 
The  dying  beam  of  liglit. 
The  eldest  and  tlie  latest  thou, 
Hail,  venerable  Night  ! 
Around  thine  ebon  brow. 
Glittering  plays  with  lightning  rays 
A  wreath  of  flowers  of  fire. 
Tlie  varying  clouds  with  many  a  hue  attire 
Thy  many-tinted  veil. 
Holy  are  the  blue  graces  of  thy  zone  ! 
But  who  is  he  whose  tongue  can  tell 
The  dewy  lustres  which  thine  eyes  adorn .' 
Lovely  to  some  the  blushes  of  the  morn  ; 

To  some  tlic  glories  of  tlie  Day, 
When,  blazing  with  meridian  ray. 

The  gorgeous  Sun  ascends  his  highest  throne ; 
But  I  with  solemn  and  severe  delinht 

Still  watch  thy  constant  car,  immortal  Night' 

For  then  to  the  celestial  Palaces 
Urania  leads,  Urania,  she 

The  Goddess  who  alone 
Stands  by  the  blazing  throne. 
Effulgent  with  the  liglit  of  Deity. 
Wiioin  Wisdom,  the  Creatrix,  by  her  side 
Placed  on  the  heights  of  yonder  sky. 
And  smiling  witli  ambrosial  love,  unlock'd 
Tlie  depths  of  Nature  to  her  piercing  eye. 
Angelic  myriads  struck  their  harps  around, 
And  with  triumphant  song 
The  host  of  Stars,  a  beauteous  throng, 

Around  the  ever-living  Mind 

In  jubilee  their  mystic  dance  begun  ; 

When  at  thy  leaping  forth,  O  Sun  ' 

Tlie  Morning  started  in  affrio-ht, 

Astonish'd  at  thy  birth,  her  Child  of  Light ' 

Hail,  O  Urania,  hail ! 
Queen  of  the  Muses  !  Mistress  of  the  Song! 
For  thou  didst  deign  to  leave  the  heavenly  thromr 
As  earthward  thou  thy  steps  wert  bendimr, 
A  ray  went  forth  and  harbinger'd  thy  way 
All  Ether  laugli'd  with  thy  descendino-. 
Thou  hadst  wreath'd  thy  hair  with  roses. 
The  flower  that  in  the  immortal  bower 
Its  deathless  bloom  discloses. 
Before  thine  awful  mien,  compelled  to  shrink, 
Fled  Ignorance,  abash'd,  with  all  her  brood, 
Dragons,  and  Hags  of  baleful  breath, 
Fierce  Dreams,  that  wont  to  drink 
The  Sepulchre's  black  blood; 
Or  on  the  wings  of  storms 
Riding  in  fury  forms. 
Shriek  to  the  mariner  the  shriek  of  Death. 


I  boast,  O  Goddess,  to  thy  name 
That  I  have  raised  the  pile  of  fame  ; 

Therefore  to  me  be  given 
To  roam  the  starry  path  of  Heaven, 
To  charioteer  with  wings  on  high. 
And  to  rein-in  the  Tempests  of  the  sky. 

Chariots  of  happy  Gods  !  Fountains  of  Light ! 

Ye  Angel-Temples  briglit ! 
May  I  unblamed  your  flamy  thresholds  tread  .' 
I  leave  Earth's  lowly  scene  ; 
I  leave  the  Moon  serene. 
The  lovely  Queen  of  Night; 
I  leave  the  wide  domains, 
Beyond  where  Mars  his  fiercer  light  can  fling, 
And  Jupiter's  vast  plains, 
(The  many-belted  king ;) 
Even  to  the  solitude  where  Saturn  reigns, 



Like  some  stern  tyrant  to  just  exile  driven  ; 
Dim-seen  the  sullen  power  appears 
In  that  cold  solitude  of  Heaven, 
And  slow  he  drags  along 
The  mighty  circle  of  long-lingering  years. 

Nor  shalt  thou  escape  my  sight, 
Who  at  the  threshold  of  the  sun-trod  domes 
Art  trembling,  —  youngest  Daughter  of  the  Night ! 
And  you,  ye  fiory-tressed  strangers !  you. 
Comets  who  wander  wide. 
Will  I  along  your  pathless  way  pursue, 
Whence  bending  I  may  view 
The  Worlds  whom  elder  Suns  have  vivified. 

For  Hope  with  loveliest  visions  soothes  my  mind. 
That  even  in  Man,  Life's  winged  power, 
When  comes  again  the  natal  hour. 
Shall  on  heaven-wandering  feet. 
In  undecaying  youth. 
Spring  to  the  blessed  seat; 
Where  round  the  fields  of  Truth 
The  fiery  Essences  forever  feed  ; 
And  o'er  the  ambrosial  mead. 
The  breezes  of  serenity 
Silent  and  soothing  glide  forever  by. 

There,  Priest  of  Nature  !  dost  thou  shine, 
Newton  !  a  Kino-  amono-  the  Kinn-s  divine. 
Whether  with  harmony's  mild  force, 
He  guides  along  its  course 
The  a.xle  of  some  beauteous  star  on  high. 
Or  gazing,  in  the  spring 
Ebullient  with  creative  energy. 
Feels  his  pure  breast  with  rapturous  joy  possess'd, 
Inebriate  in  the  holy  ecstasy. 


I  may  not  call  thee  mortal  then,  my  soul ! 
Immortal  longings  lift  thee  to  the  skies  : 
Love  of  thy  native  home  inflames  thee  now. 
With  pious  madness  wise. 
Know  then  thyself!  expand  thy  wings  divine  ! 
Soon,  mingled  with  thy  fathers,  thou  shalt  shine 
A  star  amid  the  starry  throng, 
A  God  the  Gods  among. 

London,  1802. 




GoosEBERRY-PiE  is  best. 
Full  of  the  theme,  O  Muse,  begin  the  song  ! 
What  though  the  sunbeams  of  the  West 

Mature  within  the  Turtle's  breast 
Blood  glutinous  and  fat  of  verdant  hue  ? 

What  though  the  Deer  bound  sportively  along 

O'er  springy  turf,  the  Park's  elastic  vest  ? 

Give  them  their  honors  due, — 

But  Gooseberry-Pie  is  best. 

Behind  his  oxen  slow 
The  patient  Ploughman  plods. 
And  as  the  Sower  followed  by  the  clods 
Earth's  genial  womb  received  the  living  seed. 
The  rains  descend,  the  grains  they  grow ; 

Saw  ye  the  vegetable  ocean 
Roll  its  green  ripple  to  the  April  gale  .' 
The  golden  waves  with  multitudinous  motion 
Swell  o'er  the  summer  vale  ? 


It  flows  tlirough  Alder  banks  along 
Beneath  the  copse  that  hides  the  hill ; 
The  gentle  stream  you  cannot  see. 
You  only  hear  its  melody, 
The  stream  that  turns  the  Mill. 
Pass  on  a  little  way,  pass  on. 
And  you  shall  catch  its  gleam  anon ; 
And  hark  !  tlie  loud  and  agonizing  groan, 
That  makes  its  anguish  known, 
Where  tortured  by  the  Tyrant  Lord  of  Meal 
The  Brook  is  broken  on  the  Wheel  ! 

Blow  fair,  blow  fair,  thou  orient  gale  ! 
On  the  white  bosom  of  the  sail, 
Ye  Winds,  enamor'd,  lingering  lie  I 
Ye  Waves  of  ocean,  spare  the  bark. 
Ye  tempests  of  the  sky  ! 
From  distant  realms  she  comes  to  bring 
The  sugar  for  my  Pie. 
For  this  on  Gambia's  arid  side 
The  Vulture's  feet  are  scaled  with  blood, 
And  Beelzebub  beholds  with  pride 
His  darling  planter  brood. 

First  in  the  spring  thy  leaves  were  seen, 
Thou  beauteous  bush,  so  early  green  ! 
Soon  ceased  thy  blossoms'  little  life  of  love 

O  safer  than  the  gold-fruit-bearing  tree. 
The  glory  of  that  old  Hesperian  grove, — 

No  Dragon  does  there  need  for  thee 

With  quintessential  sting  to  work  alarms. 

Prepotent  guardian  of  thy  fruitage  fine. 

Thou  vegetable  Porcupine  !  — 

And  didst  thou  scratch  thy  tender  arms, 

O  Jane  !  that  I  should  dine  ! 

The  flour,  the  sugar,  and  the  fruit, 
Commingled  well,  how  well  they  suit ! 

And  they  were  well  bestow'd. 
O  Jane,  with  truth  1  praise  your  Pie, 
And  will  not  you  in  just  reply 
Praise  my  Pindaric  Ode  .' 

Exeter,  1799. 



TO  A  BEE. 

Tiiou  wert  out  betimes,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee ! 

As  abroad  1  took  my  early  wa}', 

Before  the  Cow  from  her  resting-place 

Had  risen  up  and  left  her  trace 

On  the  meadow,  with  dew  so  gray. 

Saw  I  thee,  tiiou  busy,  busy  Bee. 

Thou  wert  working  late,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 
After  the  fall  of  the  Cistus  flower. 
When  the  Primrose-of-evening  was  ready  to  burst, 
I  heard  thee  last,  as  I  saw  thee  first ; 
In  the  silence  of  the  evening  hour, 
Heard  1  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee. 

Thou  art  a  miser,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 
Late  and  early  at  employ ; 
Still  on  thy  golden  stores  intent. 
Thy  summer  in  heaping  and  hoarding  is  spent 

What  thy  winter  will  never  enjoy ; 
Wise  lesson  this  for  me,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  I 

Little  dost  thou  think,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 

What  is  the  end  of  thy  toil. 
When  the  latest  flowers  of  the  ivy  are  gone. 
And  all  thy  work  for  the  year  is  done. 

Thy  master  comes  for  the  spoil. 
Woe  then  for  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  Bee  ! 

Westbunj,  1799. 

TO  A  SriDER, 


Spider  !  thou  need'st  not  run  in  fear  about 
To  simn  my  curious  eyes ; 
I  won't  humanely  crush  thy  bowels  out 
Lest  thou  shouldst  eat  the  flies ; 
Nor  will  1  roast  thee  v.'ith  a  damn'd  delight 
Thy  strange  instinctive  fortitude  to  see. 
For  there  is  One  who  might 
One  day  roast  me. 


Thou  art  welcome  to  a  Rhymer  sore-perplex'd. 
The  subject  of  his  verse  ; 
There's  many  a  one  who,  on  a  better  text, 
Perhaps  might  comment  worse. 
Then  shrink  not,  old  Free-Ma?on,  from  my  view, 
But  quietly  like  me  spin  out  the  line ; 
Do  thou  thy  work  pursue, 
As  1  will  mine. 

Weaver  of  snares,  thou  emblemest  the  ways 

Of  Satan,  Sire  of  lies ; 
Hell's  huge  black  Spider,  for  mankind  he  lays 
His  toils,  as  thou  for  flies. 

When  Betty's  busy  eye  runs  round  the  room. 
Woe  to  that  nice  geometry,  if  seen ! 
But  where  is  he  whose  broom 
The  earth  shall  clean  ? 

Spider  !  of  old  thy  flimsy  webs  were  thouglit  — 

And  'twas  a  likeness  true  — 
To  emblem  laws  in  which  the  weak  are  caught. 
But  which  the  strong;  break  through  : 
And  if  a  victim  in  thy  toils  is  ta'en, 
Like  some  poor  client  is  that  wretched  fly  , 
I'll  warrant  thee  thou'lt  drain 
His  life-blood  dry. 

And  is  not  thy  weak  work  like  human  schemes 
And  care  on  earth  employ'd  ? 
Such  are  young  hopes  and  Love's  delightful  dreams 

So  easily  dcstroy'd  ! 

So  does  the  Statesman,  whilst  the  Avengers  sleep, 

Sclf-deem'd  secure,  his  wiles  in  secret  lay  ; 

Soon  shall  destruction  sweep 

His  work  away. 

Thou  busy  laborer  !  one  resemblance  more 

May  yet  the  verse  prolong. 

For,  Spider,  thou  art  like  the  Poet  poor, 

Whom  thou  hast  help'd  in  song. 

Both  busily  our  needful  food  to  win. 

We  work,  as  Nature  taught,  with  ceaseless  pains  , 

Thy  bowels  thou  dost  spin, 

I  spin  my  brains. 

Weslbunj,  1798. 


The  rage  of  Babylon  is  roused, 
The  King  puts  forth  his  strength  ; 
And  Judah  bends  the  bow 
And  points  her  arrows  for  the  coming  war. 

Her  walls  are  firm,  her  gates  are  strong, 
Her  youth  gird  on  the  sword  ; 
High  are  her  chiefs  in  hope. 
For  soon  will  Egypt  send  the  promised  aid. 

But  who  is  he  whose  voice  of  woe 
Is  heard  amid  the  streets  .' 
Whose  ominous  voice  proclaims 
Her  strength,  and  arms,  and   promised  succors 
vain  ? 

His  meagre  cheek  is  pale  and  sunk. 
Wild  is  his  hollow  eye, 
Yet  awful  is  its  glance  ; 
And  who  could  bear  the  anger  of  his  frown  .' 

Prophet  of  God  !  in  vain  thy  lips 
Proclaim  the  woe  to  come ; 
In  vain  thy  warning  voice 
Summons  her  rulers  timely  to  repent ! 



The  Etluop  changes  not  his  skin. 
Impious  and  reckless  still 
The  rulers  spurn  thy  voice, 
And  now  the  measure  of  their  crimes  is  full. 

For  now  around  Jerusalem 
The  countless  foes  appear  ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
Spreads  the  wide  horror  of  the  circling  siege. 

Why  is  the  warrior's  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Why  droops  the  gallant  youth 
Who  late  in  pride  of  heart 
Sharpen'd  his  javelin  for  the  welcome  war  .' 

'Tis  not  for  terror  that  his  eye 
Swells  with  the  struggling  woe ; 
Oh  !  he  could  bear  his  ills, 
Or  rush  to  death,  and  in  the  grave  have  peace. 

His  parents  do  not  ask  for  food, 
But  they  are  weak  with  want ; 
His  wife  has  given  her  babes 
Her  wretched   pittance, — she  makes  no  com- 

The  consummating  hour  is  come  ! 
Alas  for  Solyma  ! 
How  is  she  desolate, — 
She  that  was  great  among  the  nations,  fallen  ! 

And  thou  —  thou  miserable  King  — 
Where  is  thy  trusted  flock. 
Thy  flock  so  beautiful, 
Thy  Father's  throne,  the  temple  of  thy  God  .' 

Repentance  brings  not  back  the  past ; 
It  will  not  call  again 
Thy  murder'd  sons  to  life. 
Nor  vision  to  those  eyeless  sockets  more. 

Thou  wretched,  childless,  blind,  old  man. 
Heavy  thy  punishment ; 
Dreadful  thy  present  woes, 
Alas,  more  dreadful  thy  remember'd  guilt ! 

Westbury,  1798. 


Joy,  joy  in  London  now  ! 
He  goes,  the  rebel  Wallace  goes  to  death ; 
At  length  the  traitor  meets  the  traitor's  doom, 

Joy,  joy,  in  London  now  ! 

He  on  a  sledge  is  drawn. 
His  strong  right  arm  unweapon'd  and  in  chains, 
And  garlanded  around  his  helmless  head 

The  laurel  wreath  of  scorn. 

They  throng  to  view  him  now 
Who  in  the  field  had  fled  before  his  sword. 
Who  at  the  name  of  Wallace  once  grew  pale 

And  falter'd  out  a  prayer. 

Yes  !  they  can  meet  his  eye, 
That  only  beams  with  patient  courage  now ; 
Yes !  they  can  look  upon  those  manly  limbs^ 

Defenceless  now  and  bound. 

And  that  eye  did  not  shrink 
As  he  beheld  the  pomp  of  infamy  ; 
Nor  one  ungovern'd  feeling  shook  those  limbs, 

When  the  last  moment  came. 

What  though  suspended  sense 
Was  by  their  legal  cruelty  revived ;  [life 

What  thousrh  iiifrenious  venjjeance  lengthcn'd 

To  feel  protracted  death  .-' 

What  though  the  hangman's  hand 
Grasped  in  his  living  breast  the  heaving  heart .' — 
In  the  last  agony,  the  last,  sick  pang, 

Wallace  had  comfort  still. 

He  call'd  to  mind  his  deeds 
Done  for  his  country  in  the  embattled  field  ; 
He  thought  of  that  good  cause  for  which  he  died, 

And  it  was  joy  in  death. 

Go,  Edward  !    triumph  now  ! 
Cambria   is  fallen,  and    Scotland's  strength  is 

crush'd ; 
On  Wallace,  on  Llewellyn's  mangled  limbs, 

The  fowls  of  Heaven  have  fed. 

Unrivall'd,  unopposed. 
Go,  Edward,  full  of  glory  to  thy  grave  ! 
The  weight  of  patriot  blood  upon  thy  soul, 

Go,  Edward,  to  thy  God  ! 

Westburij,  1793. 


Clear  shone  the  morn,  the  gale  was  fair, 
When  from  Coruria's  crowded  port 
With  many  a  cheerful  shout  and  loud  acclaim 
The  huge  Armada  past. 

To  England's  shores  their  streamers  point, 
To  England's  shores  their  sails  are  spread. 
They  go  to  triumph  o'er  the  sea-girt  land. 
And  Rome  hath  blest  their  arms. 

Along  the  ocean's  echoing  verge. 
Along  the  mountain  range  of  rocks. 
The  clustering  multitudes  behold  their  pomp, 
And  raise  the  votive  prayer. 

Commingling  with  the  ocean's  roar 
Ceaseless  and  hoarse  their  murmurs  rise. 
And  soon  they  trust  to  see  the  winged  bark 
That  bears  good  tidings  home. 

The  watch-tower  now  in  distance  sinks, 
And  now  Galicia's  mountain  rocks 
Faint  as  the  far-off"  clouds  of  evening  lie, 
And  now  they  fade  away. 


P  0  E  M  S .                                                     139 

Each  like  some  moving  citadel, 

Thy  hand  is  on  him,  righteous  God ! 

On  througli  the  waves  they  sail  sublime  ; 

He  hears  the  frantic  shrieks. 

And  now  the  Spaniards  see  the  silvery  clifi's, 

He  hears  tlie  glorying  yells  of  massacre, 

Behold  the  sea-girt  land  ! 

And  he  repents,  —  too  late. 

O  fools !  to  think  that  ever  foe 

He  hears  the  nmrdeirer's  savage  shout. 

Should  triumph  o'er  that  sea-girt  land  ! 

He  hears  the  groan  of  death ; 

0  fools  !   to  think  that  ever  Britain's  sons 

In  vain  they  fly,  —  soldiers  defenceless  now. 

Should  wear  the  stranger's  yoke  1 

Women,  old  men,  and  babes. 

For  not  in  vain  hath  Nature  rcar'd 

Rigliteous  and  just  art  thou,  O  God  ! 

Around  her  coast  those  silvery  cliffs ; 

For  at  his  dying  hour 

For  not  in  vain  old  Ocean  spreads  his  waves 

Those  slirieks  and  groans  reechoed  in  his  ear, 

To  guard  his  favorite  isle  ! 

He  heard  that  murderous  yell ! 

On  come  her  gallant  mariners  ! 

They  throng'd  around  his  midnight  couch, 

What  now  avail  Rome's  boasted  charms  ? 

The  phantoms  of  the  slain  ;  — 

Where  are  the  Spaniard's  vaunts  of  eager  wrath  ? 

It  prey'd  like  poison  on  his  powers  of  life  : 

His  hopes  of  conquest  now? 

Righteous  art  thou,  O  God  ! 

And  hark  !  the  angry  Winds  arise  ; 

Spirits  !  who  suffer'd  at  that  hour 

Old  Ocean  heaves  his  angry  Waves  ; 

For  freedom  and  for  faitli, 

The  Winds  and  Waves  against  the  invaders  fight, 

Ye  saw  your  country  bent  beneath  the  yoke, 

To  guard  the  sea-girt  land. 

Her  faith  and  freedom  crush'd. 

Howling  around  his  palace-towers 

And  like  a  giant  from  his  sleep 

The  Spanish  despot  hears  the  storm  ; 

Ye  saw  when  France  awoke ; 

He  thinks  upon  his  navies  far  away, 

Ye  saw  t!ie  people  burst  tlieir  double  chain, 

And  boding  doubts  arise. 

And  ye  had  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

Weslbunj,  1798. 

Long,  over  Biscay's  boisterous  surge 
The  watchman's  aching  eye  sliall  strain  1 



Long  shall  he  gaze,  but  never  wing'd  bark 

Shall  bear  good  tidings  home. 


Westbury,  1798. 


O  Reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 
The  Holly-Tree.' 

The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 


Its  glossy  leaves 

Order'd  by  an  intelligence  so  wise. 

The  night  is  come  ;  no  fears  disturb 

As  might  confound  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

The  dreams  of  innocence ; 


Tiiey  trust  in  kingly  faith  and  kingly  oaths  ; 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

They  sleep,  —  alas  !  they  sleep  ! 

Wrinkled  and  keen ; 

No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Go  to  the  palace,  wouldst  thou  know 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 

How  hideous  night  can  be  ; 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear. 

Eye  is  not  closed  in  those  accursed  walls, 

Smooth  and  unarm'd  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

Nor  heart  at  quiet  there. 


I  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

The  Monarch  from  the  window  leans, 

He  listens  to  the  niglit, 

And  moralize ; 

And  with  a  horrible  and  eager  hope 

And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  Holly-Tree 

Awaits  the  midnight  bell. 

Can  emblem  see 

Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, 

Oh,  ho  has  Hell  within  him  now ! 

One  which  may  profit  in  the  after  time. 

God,  always  art  thou  just  1 

For  innocence  can  never  know  such  pangs 


As  pierce  successful  guilt. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere. 

He  looks  abroad,  and  all  is  still. 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Hark  !  —  now  tlie  midnight  bell 

Reserved  and  rude, 

Sounds  through  the  silence  of  the  night  alone, — 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be 

And  now  the  signal  gun  ! 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-Tree. 

140                                                      L  Y 11 1  C 


And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  1  know, 


Some  harsliness  show, 

All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

And  wherefore  do  the  Poor  complain  .' 

Would  wear  away, 

The  Rich  Man  ask'd  of  me  ;  — 

Till  the  smooth  temper  ot"  my  age  should  be 

Come  walk  abroad  with  me,  1  said. 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-Tree. 

And  1  will  answer  thee. 


'Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

Were  cheerless  to  behold, 

So  bright  and  green, 

And  we  were  wrapp'd  and  coated  well, 

The  Holly  leaves  a  sober  hue  display 

And  yet  we  were  a-cold. 

Less  bright  than  they  ; 

But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 

We  met  an  old,  bare-headed  man; 

What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  Holly-Tree  ? 

His  locks  were  thin  and  white ; 

I  ask'd  him  what  he  did  abroad 


In  that  cold  winter's  night. 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng ; 

The  cold  was  keen  indeed,  he  said, 

So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

But  at  home  no  fire  had  he. 

More  grave  than  they. 

And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 

To  ask  for  charity. 

As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly-Tree. 

We  met  a  young,  bare-footed  child, 

Westbunj,  1798. 

And  she  begg'd  loud  and  bold ; 


1  ask'd  her  what  she  did  abroad 


When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold. 


She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

Slowly  thy  flowing  tide 

And  he  lay  sick  a-bed ; 

Came  in,  old  Avon  !  scarcely  did  mine  eyes. 

And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 

As  watchfully  I  roam'd  thy  green-wood  side, 

Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

Perceive  its  gentle  rise. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 

With  many  a  stroke  and  strong 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest ; 

The  laboring  boatmen  upward  plied  their  oars ; 

She  had  a  baby  at  her  back, 

Yet  little  way  they  made,  though  laboring  long 

And  another  at  her  breast. 

Between  thy  winding  shores. 

I  ask'd  her  why  she  loiter'd  there 

Now  down  thine  ebbing  tide 

When  the  night-wind  was  so  chill ; 

The  unlabor'd  boat  falls  rapidly  along ; 

She  turn'd  her  head  and  bade  the  child 

The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide, 

That  scream'd  behind,  be  still;  — 

And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Then  told  us  tliat  her  husband  served, 

Now  o'er  the  rocks  that  lay 

A  soldier,  far  away, 

So  silent  late,  the  shallow  current  roars  ; 

And  therefore  to  her  parish  she 

Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  seaward  way 

Was  begging  back  her  way. 

Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

We  met  a  girl ;  her  dress  was  loose, 

Avon  !  I  gaze  and  know 

And  sunken  was  her  eye. 

The  lesson  emblem'd  in  thy  varying  way  : 

Who  with  a  wanton's  hollow  voice 

It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so  slow, 

Address'd  the  passers-by. 

So  rapidly  decay. 

I  ask'd  her  wliat  there  was  in  guilt 

Kingdoms  which  long  have  stood, 

That  could  her  heart  allure 

And  slow  to  strength  and  power  attain'd  at  last, 

To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse : 

Thus  from  the  summit  of  high  fortune's  flood 

She  answcr'd,  she  was  poor. 

They  ebb  to  ruin  fast. 

I  turn'd  me  to  the  Rich  Man  then. 

Thus  like  tiiy  flow  appears 

For  silently  stood  he, — 

Time's  tardy  course  to  manhood's  envied  stage ; 

You  ask'd  me  why  the  poor  complain. 

Alas!  how  hurryingly  the  ebbing  years 

And  these  have  answer'd  thee  ! 

Then  hasten  to  old  age  ! 

London,  1798. 

Westbunj,  1799 




Mary  i  ten  chcckcr'd  years  have  past 
Since  we  beheld  each  other  last ; 
Yet,  Mary,  I  remember  thee. 
Nor  canst  thou  liave  forgotten  me. 

The  bloom  was  tlien  upon  thy  face ; 
Thy  form  had  every  youthful  grace ; 
1  too  had  tlicn  the  warmth  of  youth. 
And  in  our  hearts  was  all  its  truth. 

We  conversed,  were  there  others  by, 
With  common  mirth  and  random  eye  ; 
But  when  escaped  the  sight  of  men. 
How  serious  vpas  our  converse  then  ! 

Our  talk  was  then  of  years  to  come, 
Of  hopes  which  ask'd  a  humble  doom. 
Themes  wliicli  to  loving  thoughts  might  move, 
Although  we  never  spake  of  love. 

At  our  last  meeting  sure  thy  heart 
AVas  even  as  loath  as  mine  to  part ; 
And  yet  we  little  thought  that  then 
We  parted  —  not  to  meet  again. 

Long,  Mary  !  after  that  adieu. 
My  dearest  day-dreams  were  of  you ; 
In  sleep  1  saw  you  still,  and  long 
Made  you  the  theme  of  secret  song. 

When  manhood  and  its  cares  came  on, 
The  humble  hopes  of  youth  were  gone ; 
And  other  hopes  and  other  fears 
Effaced  the  thoughts  of  happier  years. 

Meantime  through  many  a  varied  year 
Of  thee  no  tidings  did  I  hear, 
And  thou  hast  never  heard  my  name 
Save  from  the  vague  reports  of  fame. 

But  then,  I  trust,  detraction's  lie 
Hath  kindled  anger  in  thine  eye  ; 
And  thou  my  praise  wert  proud  to  see, — 
My  name  should  still  be  dear  to  thee. 

Ten  years  have  held  their  course  ;  thus  late 
1  learn  the  tidings  of  thy  fate ; 
A  Husband  and  a  Father  now, 
Of  thee,  a  Wife  and  Mother  thou. 

And,  Mary,  as  for  thee  I  frame 

A  prayer  which  hath  no  selfish  aim. 

No  happier  lot  can  1  wish  thee 

Than  such  as  Heaven  hath  granted  me. 

London,  1802. 



Do  I  regret  the  past .' 

Would  I  again  live  o'er 
The  morning  hours  of  life  .' 
Nay,  William  !  nay,  not  so  ! 

In  the  warm  joyance  of  the  summer  sun, 
I  do  not  wish  again 
The  changeful  April  day. 
Nay,  William  !  nay,  not  so  ! 
Safe  haven'd  from  the  sea, 
1  would  not  tempt  again 
The  uncertain  ocean's  wrath. 
Praise  be  to  Him  who  made  me  what  I  am, 
Other  I  would  not  be. 


Why  is  it  pleasant  then,  to  sit  and  talk 
Of  days  that  are  no  more  ? 
When  in  his  own  dear  home 
The  traveller  rests  at  last, 
And  tells  how  often  in  his  wanderings, 
The  thought  of  those  far  off 
Hath  made  his  eyes  o'erflow 
Witli  no  unmanly  tears ;  ' 
Delighted  he  recalls  [trod ; 

Through  what  fair  scenes  his  lingering  feet  have 
But  ever  when  he  tells  of  perils  past 
And  troubles  now  no  more. 
His  eyes  are  brightest,  and  a  readier  joy 
Flows  thankful  from  his  heart. 

No,  William  !  no,  I  would  not  live  again 
The  morning  hours  of  life ; 

I  would  not  be  again 
The  slave  of  hope  and  fear ; 
I  would  not  learn  again 
The  wisdom  by  Experience  hardly  taught. 


To  me  the  past  presents 
No  object  for  regret; 
To  me  the  present  gives 
All  cause  for  full  content. 
The  future  .'  —  it  is  now  the  cheerful  noon. 
And  on  tlie  sunny-smiling  fields  I  gaze 
With  eyes  alive  to  joy ; 
When  the  dark  night  descends, 
I  willingly  shall  close  my  weary  lids. 
In  sure  and  certain  hope  to  wake  again. 

Westbimj,  1798. 


Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul, 
Descend  to  contemplate 
The  form  that  once  was  dear  I 

The  Spirit  is  not  there 
Which  kindled  that  dead  eye. 
Which  throbb'd  in  that  cold  heart, 
Which  in  that  motionless  hand 
Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp. 
The  Spirit  is  not  there  ! 
It  is  but  lifeless,  perishable  flesh 
That  moulders  in  the  grave ; 
Earth,  air,  and  water's  ministering  particles 

142                        SONGS    OF    THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS. 

Now  to  the  elements 

Unhappy  man  was  he 

Resolved,  their  uses  done. 

On  whom  thine  angry  eye  was  fix'd  in  fight  I 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul, 

And  he  who  from  thy  hand 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ; 

Received  the  calumet, 

The  Spirit  is  not  there  ! 

Blest  Heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

Often  together  have  we  talk'd  of  death ; 


When  the  Evil  Spirits  seized  thee. 

How  sweet  it  were  to  see 

Brother,  we  were  sad  at  heart : 

All  doubtful  tilings  made  clear; 

We  bade  the  Jongler  come 

How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

And  bring  his  magic  aid; 

Such  as  the  Cherubim, 

We  circled  thee  in  mystic  dance, 

To  view  the  depth  of  Heaven ! 

With  songs  and  shouts  and  cries, 

O  Edmund  !  thou  hast  first 

To  free  thee  from  their  power. 

Begun  the  travel  of  Eternity  I 

Brother,  but  in  vain  we  strove  ; 

I  look  upon  the  stars. 

The  number  of  thy  days  was  full. 

And  think  that  thou  art  there. 

Unfetter'd  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee. 


Thou  sittest  amongst  us  on  thy  mat ; 


The  bear-skin  from  thy  shoulder  hangs  , 

And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were 

Thy  feet  are  sandall'd  ready  for  the  way 

With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power. 

Those  are  the  unfatigueable  feet 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

That  traversed  the  forest  track ; 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err ! 

Those  are  the  lips  that  late 

Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence  !     Thou  hast  given 

Thunder'd  the  yell  of  war ; 

A  birth  to  holy  thought. 

And  that  is  the  strong  right  arm 

Hast  kept  me  from  the  world  unstain'd  and  pure. 

Which  never  was  lifted  in  vain. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err  ! 

Those  lips  are  silent  now  ; 

Our  best  aifections  here 

The  limbs  that  were  active  are  stiff; 

They  are  not  like  the  toys  of  infancy  ; 

Loose  hangs  the  strong  right  arm  ! 

The  Soul  outgrows  them  not ; 

We  do  not  cast  them  off; 


O,  if  it  could  be  so. 

And  where  is  That  which  in  thy  voice 

It  were  indeed  a  dreadful  thing  to  die  ! 

The  language  of  friendship  spake .' 

That  gave  the  strength  of  thine  arm " 


That  fill'd  thy  limbs  with  life .' 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  Soul, 

It  was  not  Thou,  for  Thou  art  here, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ! 

Thou  art  amongst  us  still, 

But  in  the  lonely  hour, 

But  the  Life  and  the  Feeling  are  gone. 

But  in  the  evening  walk. 

The  Iroquois  will  learn 

Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude ; 

That  thou  hast  ceased  from  war ; 

Think  that  he  holds  with  thee 

'Twill  be  a  joy  like  victory  to  them. 

Mysterious  intercourse  ; 

For  thou  wert  the  scourge  of  their  nation. 

And  though  remembrance  wake  a  tear, 


There  will  be  joy  in  grief. 

Brother,  we  sing  thee  the  song  of  death ; 

Wesibury,  1799. 

In  thy  coffin  of  bark  we  lay  thee  to  rest ; 

The  bow  shall  be  placed  by  thy  side. 

And  the  shafts  that  are  pointed  and  feather'd  for 
To  the  country  of  the  Dead 


Long  and  painful  is  thy  way; 


Over  rivers  wide  and  deep 


Lies  the  road  that  must  be  past, 

By  bridges  narrow-wall'd, 

Where  scarce  the  Soul  can  force  its  way. 
While  the  loose  fabric  totters  under  it. 



Safely  may  our  brother  pass  ! 


Brother,  thou  wert  strong  in  youth  ! 

Safely  may  he  reach  the  fields. 

Brother,  thou  wert  brave  in  war  I 

Where  the  sound  of  the  drum  and  the  shell 

Unhappy  man  was  he 

Shall  be  heard  from  the  Country  of  Souls ! 

For  whom  thou  hadst  sharpen 'd  the  tomahawk's 

The  Spirits  of  thy  Sires 


Shall  come  to  welcome  thee  : 

SONGS    OF    THE    AMERICAN    INDIANS.                          14J 

Tlie  God  of  the  Dead  in  his  Bower 


Shall  receive  thee,  and  bid  thee  join 

My  Fatlier,  rest  in  peace  ! 

The  dance  of  eternal  joy. 

Rest  with  the  dust  of  tliy  Sires  ! 

They  placed  tlieir  Cross  in  thy  dying  grasp;  — 


They  bore  thee  to  their  burinl-place. 

Brother,  we  pay  thee  the  rites  of  death ; 

And  over  thy  breathless  frame 

Rest  in  thy  Bower  of  Delight ! 

Their  bloody  and  merciless  Priest 

Mumbled  his  magic  hastily. 

Westbury,  1799. 

Oh  1  could  tliy  bones  be  at  peace 

In  the  field  where  the  Strangers  are  laid  .'  — 


Alone,  in  danger  and  in  pain. 

My  Father,  1  bring  thee  here; 


So  may  our  God,  in  reward. 
Allow  me  one  faithful  friend 


To  lay  me  beside  thee  when  1  am  released  ! 

So  may  he  summon  me  soon. 


That  my  Spirit  may  join  thee  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  my  Father,  rest ! 

Where  the  strangers  never  shall  come  I 

With  danger  and  toil  liave  1  borne  thy  corpse 

Exeter,  1799. 

From  the  Stranger's  field  of  death. 
I  bless  thee,  O  Wife  of  the  Sun, 


For  veiling  thy  beams  with  a  cloud. 

While  at  the  pious  task 


Tliy  votary  toil'd  in  fear. 

Thou  badcst  the  clouds  of  night 


Enwrap  thee,  and  hide  thee  from  Man ; 

But  didst  thou  not  see  my  toil. 

The  storm-cloud  grows  deeper  above  , 

And  put  on  the  darkness  to  aid, 

Araucans  !  the  tempest  is  ripe  in  the  sky ; 

O  Wife  of  the  visible  God  .' 

Our  forefathers  come  from  their  Islands  of  Bliss, 


They  come  to  the  war  of  the  winds 

Wretched,  my  Father,  thy  life  ! 

The  Souls  of  the  Strangers  are  there, 

Wretched  the  life  of  the  Slave  ! 

In  their  garments  of  darkness  they  ride  through  the 

All  day  for  another  he  toils ; 

heaven ; 

Overwearied  at  night  he  lies  down. 

Yon  cloud  that  rolls  luridly  over  tlie  hill 

And  dreams  of  the  freedom  that  once  he  enjoy 'd. 

Is  red  with  their  weapons  of  fire. 

Thou  wert  blest  in  the  days  of  tiiy  youth. 

My  Father !  for  then  thou  wert  free. 

Hark  !  hark  1  in  the  howl  of  the  wind 

in  the  fields  of  the  nation  thy  hand 

The  shout  of  tiie  battle,  the  clang  of  their  drums  ; 

Bore  its  part  of  the  general  task ;. 

The  horsemen  are  met,  and  the  shock  of  the  fight 

And  when,  with  the  song  and  the  dance. 

Is  the  blast  that  disbranches  the  wood. 

Ye  brought  tlie  harvest  home. 

As  all  in  the  labor  had  shared, 

Behold  from  the  clouds  of  their  power 

So  justly  they  shared  in  the  fruits. 

The  lightning,  —  the  lightning  is   lanced  at  our 


sires  1 
And  the  thunder  that  shakes  the  broad  pavement 

Thou  visible  Lord  of  the  Earth, 

of  Heaven ! 

Thou  God  of  my  Fathers,  thou  God  of  my  heart, 

And  the  darkness  that  quenches  the  day ! 

0  Giver  of  light  and  of  life  ! 

When  the  Strangers  came  to  our  shores, 

Ye  Souls  of  our  Fathers,  be  brave  ! 

Why  didst  thou  not  put  forth  thy  power  .' 

Ye  shrunk  not  before  the  invaders  on  earth, 

Thy  thunders  should  then  have  been  hurl'd, 

Ye  trembled  not  then  at  their  weapons  of  fire  ; 

Thy  fires  should  in  lightnings  have  flash'd  1  — 

Brave  Spirits,  ye  tremble  not  now ! 

Visible  God  of  the  Earth, 

The  Strangers  mock  at  thy  miglit ! 

We  gaze  on  your  warfare  in  hope, 

To  idols  and  beams  of  wood 

We  send  up  our  shouts  to  encourage  your  arms ! 

They  force  us  to  bow  tiie  knee ; 

Lift  the  lance  of  your  vengeance,  O  Fathers,  with 

They  plunge  us  in  caverns  and  dens. 


Where  never  thy  blessed  light 

For  the  wrongs  of  your  country  strike  home  ' 

Shines  on  our  poisonous  toil  1 

But  not  in  the  caverns  and  dens, 

Remember  the  land  was  your  own 

O  Sun,  are  we  mindless  of  thee  ! 

When  the  Sons  of  Destruction  came  over  the  seas, 

We  pine  for  the  want  of  thy  beams. 

That  the  old  fell  asleep  in  the  fulness  of  days, 

We  adore  thee  with  anguish  and  groans. 

And  their  children  wept  over  their  graves; 



Till  the  Strangers  came  into  the  land 
With  tongues  of  deceit  and  with  weapons  of  fire  : 
Then  the  strength  of  the  people  in  youth  was  cutoff, 

And  the  father  wept  over  his  son. 

It  thickens  —  the  tumult  of  fight'. 
Louder  and  louder  the  blast  of  the  battle  is  heard  I  — 
Remember  the  wrongs  tliat  your  country  endures  ! 

Remember  the  fields  of  your  fame  ! 

Joy  !  joy  !  for  the  Strangers  recoil,  — 
rhey  give  way,  —  they  retreat,  —  they  are  routed,  — 

they  fly ; 
Pursue    them !    pursue    them !    remember    your 
wrongs ! 
Let  your  lances  be  drunk  with  their  wounds. 

The  Souls  of  your  wives  shall  rejoice 
As  they  welcome  you  back  to  your  Islands  of  Bliss ; 
And  the  breeze  that  refreshes  the  toil-throbbing  brow 

Waft  thither  the  song  of  your  praise. 

Westburij,  1799. 


TwAS  the  voice  of  my  husband  that  came  on  the 

His  unappeased  Spirit  in  anger  complains  ; 

Rest,  rest,  Ollanalita,  be  still ! 

The  day  of  revenge  is  at  hand. 

The  stake  is  made  ready,  tlie  captives  shall  die ; 

To-morrow  the  song  of  their  death  shalt  thou  hear ; 
To-morrow  thy  widow  shall  wield 
The  knife  and  the  fire  ;  —  be  at  rest ! 

The    vengeance    of  anguish   shall   soon   have  its 
course,  — 

The  fountains  of  grief  and  of  fury  shall  flow,  — 
1  will  think,  Ollanahta  !  of  thee, 
Will  remember  the  days  of  our  love. 

Ollanahta,  all  day  by  thy  war-pole  I  sat, 
Where  idly  thy  hatchet  of  battle  is  hung; 
I  gazed  on  the  bow  of  thy  strength 
As  it  waved  on  the  stream  of  the  wind. 

The  scalps  that  we  number'd  in  triumph  were  there. 
And  the  musket  that  never  was  levell'd  in  vain, — 

What  a  leap  has  it  given  to  my  heart 

To  see  thee  suspend  it  in  peace ! 

When  the  black  and  blood-banner  was  spread  to 

the  gale, 
When  thrice  the  deep  voice  of  the  war-drum  was 
1  remember  thy  terrible  eyes 
How  they  flash'd  the  dark  glance  of  thy  joy. 

1  remember  the  hope  that  shone  over  thy  cheek, 
As  thy  iiand  from  the  pole  reach'd  its  doers  of  death ; 
Like  the  ominous  gleam  of  the  cloud, 
Ere  the  thunder  and  lightning  are  born 

He  went,  and  ye  came  not  to  warn  him  in  dreams 
Kindred  Spirits  of  Him  who  is  holy  and  great  I 

And  wliere  was  thy  warning,  O  Bird, 

The  timely  announcer  of  ill.' 

Alas  !  when  thy  brethren  in  conquest  return 'd  ; 

When  I  saw  the  white  plumes  bending  over  their 
And  the  pine-boughs  of  triumph  before. 
Where  the  scalps  of  their  victory  swung,  — 

The  war-hymn  they  pour'd,  and  thy  voice  was  not 
there  !  [brought : 

I   caird    thee,  —  alas,   the   white    dccr-skin   was 
And  thy  grave  was  prepared  in  the  tent 
Which  I  had  made  ready  for  joy ! 

Ollanahta,  all  day  by  thy  war-pole  I  sit, — 
Ollanahta,  all  night  I  weep  over  thy  grave  ! 

To-morrow  the  victims  shall  die, 

And  I  shall  have  joy  in  revenge. 

Westbunj,  1799. 



Now  go  to  the  battle,  my  Boy  I 
.  Dear  child  of  my  son, 
There  is  strength  in  thine  arm. 
There  is  hope  in  thy  heart, 
Thou  art  ripe  for  the  labors  of  war. 

Thy  Sire  was  a  stripling  like  thee 
When  he  went  to  the  first  of  his  fields. 


He  return'd,  in  the  glory  of  conquest  return'd  : 
Before  him  his  trophies  were  borne. 
These  scalps  that  have  hung  till  the  Sun  and  the 
Have  rusted  their  raven  locks.  [rain 

Here  he  stood  when  the  morn  of  rejoicing  arrived, 
The  day  of  the  warrior's  reward  ; 
When  the  banners  sunbeaming  were  spread, 
And  all  hearts  were  dancing  in  joy 
To  the  sound  of  the  victory-drum. 
The  Heroes  were  met  to  receive  their  reward, 
But  distinguish'd  among  the  young  Heroes  that  day, 
The  pride  of  his  nation,  thy  Fatlier  was  seen  : 
The  swan-feathers  hung  from  his  neck. 
His  face  like  the  rainbow  was  tinged, 
And  his  eye,  —  how  it  sparkled  in  pride  ! 
The  Elders  approach'd,  and  they  placed  on  his  brow 
The  crown  that  his  valor  had  won, 
And  they  gave  him  the  old  honor'd  name. 
They  reported  the  deeds  lie  had  done  in  the  war, 
And  the  youth  of  the  nation  were  told 
To  respect  him  and  tread  in  his  steps. 

My  Boy  !  I  have  seen,  and  with  hope, 

The  courage  that  rose  in  thine  eye 
When  I  told  thee  the  tale  of  his  death. 
His  war-pole  now  is  gray  with  moss, 



His  tomahawk  red  with  rust; 
His  bowstring,  whose  twang  was  death, 
Now  sings  as  it  cuts  the  wind  ; 
But  his  memory  is  fresh  in  the  land, 
And  his  name  with  the  names  that  we  love. 

Go  now  and  revenge  him,  my  Boy ! 
That  his  Spirit  no  longer  may  hover  by  day 
O'er  the  Imt  where  his  bones  are  at  rest, 
Nor  trouble  our  dreams  in  the  night. 
My  Boy,  I  shall  watch  for  the  warrior's  return. 
And  my  soul  will  be  sad 
Till  the  steps  of  thy  coming  I  see. 

Westbury,  1799. 




What  I  and  not  one  to  heave  the  pious  sigh .'' 

Not  one  whose  sorrow-swollen  and  aching  eye. 

For  social  scenes,  for  life's  endearments  fled, 

Shall  drop  a  tear,  and  dwell  upon  the  dead  ? 

Poor  wretched  Outcast !  I  will  weep  for  thee, 

And  sorrow  for  forlorn  humanity. 

Yes,  I  will  weep ;  but  not  that  thou  art  come 

To  the  cold  Sabbath  of  the  silent  tomb  : 

For  pining  want,  and  heart-consuming  care. 

Soul-withering  evils,  never  enter  there. 

I  sorrow  for  the  ills  thy  life  has  known. 

As  through  the  world's  long  pilgrimage,  alone. 

Haunted  by  Poverty  and  woe-begone, 

Unloved,  unfriended,  thou  didst  journey  on; 

Thy  youth  in  ignorance  and  labor  past. 

And  thine  old  age  all  barrenness  and  blast  I 

Hard  was  thy  Fate,  which,  while  it  doom'd  to  woe, 

Denied  thee  wisdom  to  support  the  blow ; 

And  robb'd  of  all  its  energy  thy  mind, 

Ere  yet  it  cast  thee  on  thy  fellow-kind, 

Abject  of  thought,  the   victim  of  distress. 

To  wander  in  the  world's  wide  wilderness. 

Poor  Outcast,  sleep  in  peace  !  the  wintry  storm 
Blows  bleak  no  more  on  thine  unshelter'd  form ; 
Thy  woes  are  past ;  thou  restest  in  the  tomb  ;  — 
I  pause,  —  and  ponder  on  the  days  to  come. 

Bristol,  1795. 



It  is  the  funeral  march.     I  did  not  think 
That  there  had  been  such  magic  in  sweet  sounds  ! 
Hark  !  from  the  blacken'd  cymbal  that  dead  tone  !  — 
It  awes  the  very  rabble  multitude ; 
They  follow  silently,  their  earnest  brows 

Lifted  in  solemn  thought.     'Tis  not  the  pomp 

And  pageantry  of  death  that  with  such  force 

Arrests  the  sense;  —  the  mute  and  mourning  train, 

The  white  plume  nodding  o'er  the  sable  hearse, 

Had  past  unheeded,  or  perchance  awoke 

A  serious  smile  upon  the  poor  man's  cheek 

At  pride's  last  triumph.     Now  these   measured 

This  universal  language,  to  the  heart 
Speak  instant,  and  on  all  these  various  minds 
Compel  one  feeling. 

But  such  better  thoughts 
Will  pass  away,  how  soon  !  and  these  who  here 
Are  following  their  dead  comrade  to  the  grave, 
Ere  the  night  fall  will  in  their  revelry 
Quench  all  remembrance.     From  the  ties  of  life 
Unnaturally  rent,  a  man  who  knew 
No  resting-place,  no  dear  delights  of  home, 
Belike  who  never  saw  his  children's  face. 
Whose  children  knew  no  father,  —  he  is  gone, — 
Dropp'd  from  existence,  like  a  blasted  leaf 
That  from  the  summer  tree  is  swept  away, 
Its  loss  unseen.     She  hears  not  of  his  death 
Who  bore  him,  and  already  for  her  son 
Her  tears  of  bitterness  are  shed  ;  when  first 
He  had  put  on  the  livery  of  blood. 
She  wept  him  dead  to  her. 

We  are  indeed 
Clay  in  the  potter's  hand !     One  favor'd  mind, 
Scarce  lower  than  the  Angels,  shall  explore 
The  ways  of  Nature,  whilst  his  fellow-man, 
Framed  with  like  miracle,  the  work  of  God, 
Must  as  the  unreasonable  beast  drag  on 
A  life  of  labor ;  like  this  soldier  here. 
His  wondrous  faculties  bestow'd  in  vain, 
Be  moulded  by  his  fate  till  he  becomes 
A  mere  machine  of  murder. 

And  there  are 
Who  say  that  this  is  well !  as  God  has  made 
All  things  for  man's  good  pleasure,  so  of  men 
The  many  for  the  few  !     Court-moralists, 
Reverend  lip-comforters,  that  once  a  week 
Proclaim  how  blessed  are  the  poor,  for  they 
Shall  have  their  wealth  hereafter,  and  though  now 
Toiling  and  troubled,  they  may  pick  the  crumbs 
That  from  the  rich  man's  table  fall,  at  length 
In  Abraham's  bosom  rest  with  Lazarus. 
Themselves  meantime  secure  their  good   things 

And  feast  with  Dives.     These  are  they,  O  Lord ! 
Who  in  thy  plain  and  simple  Gospel  see 
All  mysteries,  but  who  find  no  peace  enjoin'd, 
No  brotherhood,  no  wrath  denounced  on  them 
Who  shed  their  bretliren's  blood,  —  blind  at  noon- 
As  owls,  lynx-eyed  in  darkness  ! 

O  my  God ! 
I  thank  thee,  with  no  Pharisaic  pride 
I  thank  thee,  that  I  am  not  such  as  these ; 
I  thank  thee  for  the  eye  that  sees,  the  heart 
That  feels,  the  voice  that  in  these  evil  days, 
Amid  these  evil  tongues,  exalts  itself, 
And  cries  edoud  against  iniquity. 

Bristol,  1795. 





Gaspar  !  how  pleasantly  thy  pictured  scenes 
Beguile  the  lonely  hour !    I  sit  and  gaze 
With  lingering  eye,  till  dreaming  Fancy  makes 
The  lovely  landscape  live,  and  the  rapt  soul 
From  the  foul  haunts  of  herded  human-kind 
Flics  far  away  with  spirit  speed,  and  tastes 
The  untainted  air,  that  with  the  lively  hue 
Of  health  and  happiness  illumes  the  cheek 
Of  mountain  Liberty.     My  willing  soul 
All  eager  follows  on  thy  faery  flights. 
Fancy  !  best  friend ;  whose  blessed  witcheries 
With  cheering  prospects  cheat  the  traveller 
0"er  the  long  wearying  desert  of  the  world. 
Nor  dost  thou,  Fancy!  with  such  magic  mock 
My  heart,  as,  demon-born,  old  Merlin  knew, 
Or  Alquif,  or  Zarzafiel's  sister  sage, 
Who  in  her  vengeance  for  so  many  a  year 
Held  in  the  jacinth  sepulchre  entranced 
Lisuart,  the  pride  of  Grecian  chivalry. 
Friend  of  my  lonely  hours  !  thou  leadest  me 
To  such  calm  joys  as  Nature,  wise  and  good, 
Proffers  in  vain  to  all  her  wretched  sons,  — 
Her  wretched  sons  who  pine  with  want  amid 
The  abundant  earth,  and  blindly  bow  them  down 
Before  the  Moloch  shrines  of  Wealth  and  Power, 
Authors  of  Evil.     Well  it  is  sometimes 
That  thy  delusions  should  beguile  the  heart, 
Sick  of  reality.     The  little  pile 
That  tops  the  summit  of  that  craggy  hill 
Shall  be  my  dwelling  :  craggy  is  the  hill 
And  steep ;  yet  through  yon  hazels  upward  leads 
The  easy  path,  along  whose  winding  way 
Now  close  embower'd  I  hear  the  unseen  stream 
Dash  down,  anon  behold  its  sparkling  foam 
Gleam  through  the  thicket;  and  ascending  on, 
Now  pause  me  to  survey  the  goodly  vale 
That  opens  on  my  prospect.     Half  way  up, 
Pleasant  it  were  upon  some  broad,  smooth  rock 
To  sit  and  sun  myself,  and  look  below, 
And  watch  the  goatherd  downyon  high-bank'd  path 
Urging  his  flock  grotesque ;  and  bidding  now 
His  lean,  rough  dog  from  some  near  cliff  go  drive 
The  straggler ;  while  his  barkings,  loud  and  quick. 
Amid  their  tremulous  bleat,  arising  oft, 
Fainter  and  fainter  from  the  hollow  road 
Send  their  far  echoes,  till  the  waterfall. 
Hoarse  bursting  from  the  cjtvern'd  cliff  beneath. 
Their  dying  murmurs  drown.     A  little  yet 
Onward,  and  I  liave  gain'd  the  upmost  height. 
Fair  spreads  the  vale  below  :  I  see  the  stream 
Stream  radiant  on  beneath  the  noontide  sky. 
A  passing  cloud  darkens  the  bordering  steep. 
Where  the  town-spires  behind  the  castle-towers 
Rise  graceful ;  brown  the  mountain  in  its  shade. 
Whose  circling  grandeur,  part  by  mists  conceal'd. 
Part  with  white  rocks  resplendent  in  the  sun. 
Should  bound  mine  eyes,  —  ay,  and  my  wishes  too, 
For  I  would  have  no  hope  or  fear  beyond. 
The  empty  turmoil  of  the  worthless  world, 
Its  vanities  and  vices,  would  not  vex 

My  quiet  heart.     The  traveller,  who  beheld 
The  low  tower  of  the  little  pile,  might  deem 
It  were  the  house  of  God ;  nor  would  he  err 
So  deeming,  for  that  home  would  be  the  home 
Of  peace  and  love,  and  they  would  hallow  it 
To  Him.     Oh,  life  of  blessedness!  to  reap 
The  fruit  of  honorable  toil,  and  bound 
Our  wishes  with  our  wants  !  Delightful  thoughts, 
That  soothe  the  solitude  of  weary  Hope, 
Ye  leave  her  to  reality  awaked. 
Like  the  poor  captive,  from  some  fleeting  dream 
Of  friends,  and  liberty,  and  home  restored, 
Startled,  and  listening  as  the  midnight  storm 
Beats  hard  and  heavy  through  his  dungeon  bars. 

Balh,  1795. 



ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY,  1795.  ' 

How  many  hearts  are  happy  at  this  hour 
In  England  !     Brightly  o'er  the  cheerful  hall 
Flares  the  heaped  hearth,  and  friends  and  kindred 

And  the  glad  mother  round  her  festive  board 
Beholds  her  children,  separated  long 
Amid  the  wide  world's  ways,  assembled  now  — 
A  sight  at  which  affection  lightens  up 
With  smiles  the  eye  that  age  has  long  bedimm'd. 
I  do